


The Point Between Rage and Serenades

by treasuredleisure



Category: X-Men - All Media Types, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, Author oscillates between American English and British English, Charles Is a Darling, Erik hunts Nazis, Everything Hurts, Extremely Dubious Consent, Hurt/Comfort, I kid you not: Erik's a bastard with bastard friends, Implied Character Death, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Public Humiliation, X-Men First Class Kink Meme
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-27
Updated: 2013-04-02
Packaged: 2017-11-27 04:16:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 30,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/657929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/treasuredleisure/pseuds/treasuredleisure
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erik Lehnsherr meets Charles Xavier and is challenged to fuck him. Of course - that's the easier part. </p><p>The difficult part comes later, when Erik realises what an awful person he is and how callously he's been treating the one person whom he will come to care for the most.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HellbentLlama](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HellbentLlama/gifts).



> (Fill for this prompt: http://tinyurl.com/b8cru8b)
> 
> Please take warning tags into consideration at all times.

_‘Good evening. Tonight’s breaking news on Mutant Matters: another fatality was found in Miami this morning, following the riots in Orlando earlier this week. The victim, eighteen year old Lance Alvers, was also known as ‘Avalanche’. He was an activist for…’_

“Turn that darn thing off,” Bobby grits out, wiping spittle of milk as he continues to scoop spoonful’s of cereal into his mouth.

 

Erik, too consumed to acknowledge his plea, remains sat in a restless squat before the blaring screen of the television. He rocks back and forth, oblivious to his three other flatmates, then abruptly springs up—

 

“I _knew_ it! I KNEW it! That bloody _Johann Shmidt_. He’s behind all of this!”  

 

Janos rolls his eyes and sinks back atop his Chemistry text book. He proceeds to absentmindedly shade in the letterings on the page.

 

“Fuck, Lehnsherr!” Azazel thumps him on the back. “You said he was in Florida just yesterday! You _genius_.”

 

“Exactly,” Erik agrees, chest rising with triumph. “It had to have been him. I’ve always had a bad feeling about that bastard.”

 

“All you _ever_ get are bad feelings,” Bobby scorns, battling mouthfuls. He continues chewing mechanically as Erik paces across the sparse length of the lounge. “Remember when you had a bad feeling about Professor—”

 

All four of them pause. Bobby’s hand, where it’s clamped around his bowl, goes inert.

 

“Whose turn is it,” Azazel pans in a tone that doesn’t sound questioning. All pairs of eyes rake over to the sink, where they each take in the sight of the basin, brimming with dirty dishes and cutlery to the point of overflowing. Bobby overtly looks like he’s stopped plotting of ways to cram his bowl into the lot.

 

“I was last on the rota,” Janos says, decisively. He raises his pencil in recollection. “Remember when the pipe clogged? And I had to send some wind down?”

 

Erik stills.

 

“I was before him,” Bobby pipes up. “I had to melt a spoon because it stuck to the sink. We _all_ remember that.”

 

Erik takes a step back.

 

“And I did them both _before_ Janos _and_ after the frat party.”

 

Erik has now eluded to his bedroom.

 

It’s barely a second before Azazel appears at his heels, and surely – really – Erik should know better than to flee from a teleporter.

 

“Where the hell are the mutants with house-keeping skills? I mean who the fuck needs the power to bend metal…” he mutters lowly as he trudges over to the kitchen.

 

And then a roll of rope is being waved in front of his face, and he instantly knows it can only mean one thing.

 

Forfeit. 

 

:::

 

Erik knows the rules. Of course he does. He devised them.

 

“Now. You know the rules,” Bobby is too pleased, grinning saliently. It had been him last month, kneeling in the hallway, crooning away. The tables have turned, and they’ve turned deviously.

 

Janos is still the least informed. He tilts his head. “Does it have to be male or female?”

 

“ _Equality,_ man! The first first year that comes waltzing through and speaks to him.”

 

“What if they hate mutants?”

 

“What if it’s a fucking _Nazi_ ,” Erik spits.

 

“Either way, it’s their loss.” Azazel continues to bind Erik’s wrists together behind his back. When Erik struggles forcefully against the bonds, Azazel stands back up again. “Ready?”

 

“Fuck no.”

 

“Good.” He smirks down at Erik before patting him on the shoulder. Then he leans in close. “Try not to make this one cry, all right?”

 

“I’ll try my utmost.”

 

“We know.” Then he flimsily links himself to Janos and Bobby and fades into a ruddy departure.

 

Erik knows they’re still rubbernecking from a distance. Where – he doesn’t know, which means there’s a terrible possibility they’re in earshot for hearing his singing voice.

 

His dire singing voice.

 

He stares bleakly down the polished floor of the hallway’s expanse and clears his voice.

 

“Who’s it dedicated to?” comes a loud, reverberating voice from over his head. He cranes his neck to look dumbly at the vents – he wouldn’t put it past Azazel to stuff them all up there for a view – though he knows the voice belongs to Bobby. Muffled laughter ensues.

 

But then silence promptly drops, filling distantly with the repetitive sound of heels clicking against tiles. Erik gulps—

 

And Margaret, the block secretary, comes waddling down the corridor. She pauses to look at him. Her kitten heels seem to be grieving under her weight as they wedge to the side. Her calve muscles bulge out like a mountain range. Erik’s suddenly dissuaded to keep his gaze down.

 

“I-I worry about you. I – really I _worry_ about you.”

 

Then she gaits off.

 

Erik doesn’t mistake the concerned, maternal look in her hazel eyes to be anything less. He can’t blame her. He _is_ sitting on his knees in the middle of the hallway with his hands tied behind his back and his three idiotic friends stuffed in the vents. 

 

That’s still the better part. The worse part comes the very moment Erik opens his mouth.

 

:::

 

“ _T-Two little boys had, two little toys_ …”

 

“LOUDER!”

 

He growls.

 

“ _Each had a wooden horse_.” He comes to a pause, sighing deeply before he continues. “ _Gaily they played, each Summer’s day…_ ” He shuts his eyes. It’s completely silent, apart from the hollow chuckling. “ _Warriors both of… cause_.”

 

A faceless figure breezes past him.

 

Good grief. Is he really that repelling?

 

“ _One little chap, then_ … then… fuck, what’s the line? Fell into a trap? Had a – had a—”

 

 “Mishap.”

 

 Erik’s eyes snap open. _He’s free. Someone’s talking to him. He’s free; he’s free._

 

The voice is smooth and youthful, coming from behind him. Erik hopes, _hopes_ for his own good, that the possessor of the voice is attractive. Even mildly attractive, yes – he’ll take that. He finds himself reminding every deity in existence of every good deed he has ever done. There aren’t many; it doesn’t take long, but there’s still a montage of placid moments flooding in his mind.

 

And it doesn’t take long for the speaker to reveal himself.

 

“Sorry – didn’t mean to interject.”

 

Hopeful, he looks up at his unfortunate saviour. And he’s—

 

Well, he’s rather gorgeous.

 

He smiles brightly down at Erik with full red lips brought up in a  swift curve. His eyes bring even more colour to his pale skin tone with their cerulean blue glint; a shade so disarmingly serene, Erik can do nothing in his power to tear his gaze away.

 

So he continues to gawk.

 

“Um – uh, no uh… it’s alright. It’s… it’s alright. You’re alright.”

 

The boy looks searchingly in his eyes for a while before quietly laughing, his shoulders shaking with his mirth. Erik lets his captivated expression fade into a wide grin. 

 

“Do you think you could untie me?” Erik asks, reeling his huskiest voice. He doesn’t let his gaze falter for even a second. He follows him as the boy takes hesitant steps closer to him. Erik gets a better look at him.

 

“Sure.”

 

While his face is _striking,_ his small frame is absolutely doused in clothes. As the boy steps nearer, Erik spots a white undershirt and button down, a blue cotton sweater, and to top it all, a thick grey jacket with denim jeans.  

 

He smells like mint and doesn’t stop smiling. When he comes behind Erik to untangle the knots, he imagines the smile is still in place. 

 

“There,” he says, holding the ropes before Erik as he shakes his wrists. Erik shows him his predatory grin again.  

 

“Thank you, ever so much. If there’s anything I can do for you—”

 

“Actually!” the boy beams, unveiling a crumpled piece of paper from inside his jacket pocket. The sleeves of his sweater drape over most of his hand. Erik grins all the more. “Do you think you could tell me how to get to this lecture hall?” he points to the diagram on his sheet. “I’ve been looking all morning, and I’ve been completely unsuccessful.”

 

Not a whisper comes out of the vents.

 

“Of course I can.”

 

And thus, the courting begins.

 

:::

 

“I can’t believe my own rules.”

 

He passes the binoculars.

 

“Yeah, but we’ve had to follow them—” Azazel takes the binoculars away from his face. “He’s gone.”

 

“Give me that,” Erik bites, snatching the binoculars back and leaning into them. “Dammit.”

 

“ _I_ can’t believe we just watched an old man eat his bagel for half an hour,” Janos flatly points out.

 

“I know he’s with them,” Erik sets the binoculars down with a frustrated grunt. “I have a bad—”

 

“Yes, yes. Bad feeling,” Bobby cuts, pulling himself up from his elbows. “You get bad feelings and make stupid rules.”

 

“So what does he do once he’s boned him?” Janos inquires.

 

“He has to acquire his underwear.”

 

Erik recoils.

 

“Why?”

 

Bobby turns to Erik. “Yes, Erik, why?”

 

He sighs. “A sign of victory, and… evidence.”

 

“I had to take young Cassidy’s tighty-whiteys when I broke the toilet cleaning rota. He joined in my rendition of _The Lion Sleeps Tonight_ in perfect harmony outside Dean Reed’s office.” Bobby looks wistfully at Janos. “Kid’s got mad pipes. But now I can’t even look at him in the same way.”

 

Erik swallows painfully. 

 

“What happens if he can’t get them?”

 

“He has to get in his pants, and hand us his trophy, within three weeks. If he doesn’t, he has full cleaning duties for the rest of the semester.”

 

“May I add that the semester has _just_ started?” Azazel’s grin is devilish.

 

Erik’s contempt for his old self multiplies tenfold.

 

“I’ll do it, alright. He seems easy. Hell, I’ll be able to do it in _two_ weeks.”

 

Erik is starting to hate himself in the present, too. He can’t say he’s crazy about his future self either.

 

“Alright,” Azazel shrugs. “Do it in two weeks.”

 

“Yeah,” Bobby’s eyes go wide and searing as he enthusiastically nods his head. “But if you can do it in one… we’ll let you off duty for the rest of the year.”

 

Janos thwacks him on the chest, but Erik spins back round to eye him suspiciously.

 

“What’s in it for you?” he quips at the Brazilian.

 

“Well, the sooner you’re done with the kid, the sooner we’ll get to play. I mean – you got lucky, Erik. Your kid is a _pretty_ little thing.”

 

Erik lets his friends walk onward as he slows his pace.

 

He hasn’t stopped thinking about his pretty little thing.

 

They hadn’t conversed much yesterday. He introduced himself gregariously as _Charles Xavier_ ,  accent clipped and clear, and then he’d thanked Erik profusely for showing him to the hall. It had only been a moment’s walk away. Erik couldn’t proposition him in any way after the customary exchange of his own name. It was a grave disappointment.

 

Because his pride is in jeopardy, months of salvation from cleaning is on the line, and then of course—

 

There’s a pretty little thing waiting to be debauched and become deficient of an undergarment.

 

And Erik can’t wait to do the honours. 

 

:::

 

Charles Xavier looks like he wears everything he owns. A walking closet.

 

It’s only appropriate that Erik is wholly consumed with Charles Xavier’s attire – he’ll be owning a very special article within six days. Or so, he tells himself, as he ambles into the café and pins the pretty little boy with his eyes.

 

He’s hunched over the counter and pointing towards the menu, lips pouting and pursing as he speaks. The hand trapped by his body as he pushes up against the islands is holding a copious amount of coins. His fingers are ink-mottled. His nails are bitten.

 

Erik smiles.

 

“Latte, please.” Erik hasn’t a clue of what that even is.

 

The periphery of his vision allows him to register Xavier’s turning head. And his raising eyebrows.

 

“Ah… Erik, isn’t it?”

 

Erik does the most convincing double take he’s ever done. Ever.

 

“Oh.” He blinks. “Yes, and… you’re um… you’re – you’re Chuck—”

 

“Charles,” he corrects, nose lifting. Then he turns back to face the waiter in front of him as he plucks out the right amount of change.

 

“Right, of course it’s Charles. Charles Xavier,” he says, but the boy only turns once to give him a tight lipped smile, seemingly unimpressed.

 

Erik digs his hands in his pockets, his fingers meeting only tissues, condoms and folded pieces of paper with scribbled addresses of all the bastards Erik needs to hunt down.

 

But there’s no money, and –-dammit, courting is hard stuff.

 

The freckled waiter blinks at Erik and repeats the price of the latte—thing, as if he had been yodelling before. 

 

He curses as he tries his back pocket, looking anywhere but at Xavier – who’s still standing there with his hand wrapped around his drink.

 

“May I?”

 

Erik looks up at the boy as he picks out coins from his inside curled palm.

 

“No. No – it’s alright. I’ll cancer my order. Cancel my order, please?”

 

“Don’t be silly,” the boy retorts, now displaying the full amount in change. “He’ll have his latte.”

 

The boy must really like having the upper hand. They’ve spoken twice, and both times Erik has ended up in his debt.

 

He leans in close to him, no way apologetic for his candour, and whispers into his ear, “I owe you again.”

 

The boy stiffens.  

 

“Something should be done about that,” he adds, the sultry voice undoubtedly keeping him pinned in place. “Don’t you think?”

 

Xavier’s eyes dart from the waiter who’s now fled to prepare his drink, to the counter, to Erik’s eyes.

 

“Absolutely. You could keep me company.”

 

 

The way Xavier smiles at him makes him look like the personification of a ray of sunlight. His gaze, as it holds Erik’s, is steady and in no way infiltrated by the innuendo in Erik’s proposition.

 

The waiter props his latte on the counter, and Erik takes it quickly as he goes to follow Xavier. The boy’s slight frame bends to slide into a booth.

 

“So how have you been managing your way around the campus? Been looking for estranged boys sitting on their knees with their hands tied behind their back? Or have you been doing it the old-fashioned way?”

 

The corners of his red mouth lift prettily at that, smirking into his sip of coffee.

 

“I have managed to get lost an embarrassing amount of times. A number I’ll certainly keep to myself.” He rakes his teeth over his bottom lip, engorging it. Erik finds himself lost in a watchful trance. “Though the people here are very nice, like yourself.” Erik lifts his eyes. “Not all are quite as good at singing, if I may add.”

 

“Oh,” Erik looks genuinely flattered. He feigns his next blunder. “Thank you for completing me – I mean – sorry, I meant my song. Thank you for completing my _song_.”

 

The way he looks when he laughs is a bit more endearing than one should look. Erik feels a loss of control over the boy when he chuckles like that, like he’s so comfortable around someone like him. A lamb would never be so abandoned in front of a lion.

 

When considering the amount of wool the boy is probably wearing, he might as well be apt as one—

 

“…Just look for it tomorrow.”

 

Then Erik suddenly realises that the boy has been speaking. He sits upright.

 

“I’m sorry – what were you saying?”

 

His brow curves, but he still smiles amicably, continuing in his light tone. “Nothing – It’s just been difficult to find the library. I’ve been out in search of it all day.”

 

Erik smirks.

 

“I could show you where it is,” the low, silky voice unfurls. “It’s not very far from here.”

 

But Xavier sets his coffee cup down with a fading smile.

 

“That’s awfully kind of you, Erik. But I’ve actually got footb—soccer try outs in twenty minutes.”

 

“Oh,” Erik’s brows visibly crease.

 

Soccer? Xavier hardly looks athletic – but the sceptical thought is overridden by the image of him in shorts, dirt staining his pale skin and sweat gleaming on the stretch of neck his thin shirt reveals as it sticks to his body.

 

“Yes,” the boy says quickly, cheeks rosy. “Hence the coffee. I drink a lot of coffee when I’m nervous.”

 

Erik makes a note of this.

 

Absently, his knees brush against Xavier’s. The boy bristles.

 

“I should go.” He immediately stands, downing his coffee. Erik’s eyes follow the long line of throat that makes a very brief appearance as he drinks. “Sorry to leave so soon, but if I want to find the pitch on time, I suppose I’ll have to leave as early as possible.” He smiles, self-deprecating and wry. “But it was nice speaking to you, Erik.”

 

“The pleasure’s all mine.”

 

“Maybe next time I see you, we could talk all about your gift.”

 

Then he lifts and drops his hand in farewell, casually, before turning to leave.

 

Erik eyes the boy until he’s walked away, dwelling on him even as he’s out of sight.

 

Far too easy.

 

:::

 

When Erik Lehnsherr is found in a library, it can only mean one of two things.

 

The first – a Nazi has meandered into it. The second – he’s courting a nerd.

 

He’s always been reasonably precocious. His mother had the importance of education drilled into him since he was an infant. His course, Mechanical Engineering, has always required practical prowess; something his innate talents with magnetism helps to accommodate.

 

So he’s never seen the light of a library shining on a book. Not since the first semester of first year, when he had followed one of his professor’s inside. He was a tall, burly man who always made him stay back after a tutorial and asked Erik to call him “Remy, please,” as he’d eye the length of his body.

 

When he’d seen his professor do an uncanny card trick, Erik had plucked out the courage to lope into the library after him. Erik showed him the way he could pop off the buttons of his jacket. Then they made out in the Comic Book section.

 

Erik’s grades were off to a great start.

 

The library echoes with the redolence of mahogany and the quiet thudding of a book hitting a shelf, the whisper of page chafing against page, and the low hum of distant conversation.

 

It’s so painfully desolate, Erik feels like a recluse.

 

Erik’s never been one for solitary spaces and quiet confinements. He likes the stretch of openness, the lively buzz of company, and the feel of metallic material – the surge of knowing he can control it a soothing reassurance.

 

The library has such little metal, Erik feels like he’s suffocating; powerless and defenceless. The few nuts and bolts here and there are so distant and tenuous, his magnetism is barely drawn to their presence. He’d have to go up close and concentrate solely on one fixture to be able to manipulate it to his volition.

 

Speaking of things he’d like to go up close to and manipulate, a familiar face sits at the grand oak table in the centre.

 

He conceals himself behind a shelf as he watches Xavier. He’s sitting cross legged on a chair and completely alone, the lone lamb, with his hand cupping the side of his face as he reads the thick book on the table.   

 

Then, out of sheer panic, he takes the nearest book and hugs it to his chest as he darts from the grouchy librarian before she can call him out on his unabashed voyeurism.

 

There are eleven unoccupied seats on the table. Erik goes to sit on the one that’s right next to Xavier. He makes sure to carefully tuck his chair closer to his as he sits on it, setting the book down on the table.

 

He looks down at it with a snarl.

 

_Flower Arranging: The Birds and the Bees._

 

Xavier, on his right, quickly straightens his legs and posture in his seat. Erik’s proximity is alarming, and their knees abruptly brush against each other under the table. Erik makes no move to distant himself.

 

“You don’t mind, do you?” Erik asks, eyes wide and boring into Xavier’s. The boy quickly shakes his head, floppy hair going askew.

 

“Um…” he looks down at where their chairs are joint, almost to the point of overlap. Erik sits with his legs wide. Today he feels the need to splay them open a worryingly wide amount. Xavier continues to look down apprehensively.

 

“Neurobiology?” Erik says, looking at the front cover of his book before letting it thwack back against the surface. “Is that your course?”

 

“Yes,” he says, nodding curtly. His amiable smile reappears. “And if we’re going to determine each other’s course of study by the books we’re reading, then…” his eyes promptly travel to the floral cover of the book in front of Erik.

 

“I’m not studying Flower Arranging,” he quickly disambiguates. “I study Mechanical Engineering. I’m in my second year.”

 

“Ah,” Xavier looks sincerely interested, shutting his own book. Then he anxiously looks to his left and right before leaning in close to whisper, “because of your mutation?”

 

Erik raises his brows, then leans in closer. The boy’s breath hitches at the closeness.

 

“What do you know of my mutation?” his voice is deep, undulating like a baritone.

 

This close, Erik can see the fine freckles dispersed on the boy’s nose. And the teeth marks on his bottom lip. And the faint bags underlining his eyes.

 

Erik smirks.

 

“Magnetism,” the boy utters with a pleased smile and a carefully quiet voice. “It’s wonderful.”

 

“And you? Are you like me?”

 

He nods affirmative, though he suddenly looks distant. His beguilingly blue eyes turn away as he shuffles in his seat.

 

“Are you ashamed?” Erik spits, head jutting back in incredulity.

 

“No!” he disclaims, moving invitingly closer to Erik. “It’s just – people tend to feel uncomfortable around me, because of it. Because of what I’m capable of.”

 

Erik is suddenly even more intrigued, eyeing the boy curiously. He’s always felt a resolute comfortableness around mutants. He knows that he won’t flinch on hearing of Xavier’s gift. Based on what he’s accumulated, Xavier must have an ability that allows him to identify those with the superior gene.

 

“Try me.”

 

Xavier purses his lips, looks searchingly in his eyes the way he had done a few days ago, and then says,

 

“I can read your mind.”

 

It takes Erik a while to realise that his lips haven’t even moved.

 

He’d know if Xavier’s lips had moved.

 

“Prove it,” Erik dares, trying to take the reigns on that innocence in his eyes that sees everything as innocuous and pretends everything Erik says isn’t laden with flirtatious intent.

 

“Alright,” his eyes roll to the back of his head as he contemplates. “Think of a colour.”

 

Xavier shuts his eyes and Erik wets his lips as he—

 

“Erik, black isn’t a _colour_ , it’s a _shade_. Forget that, that’s simple. Think of something more difficult; any readable, coherent thought and I’ll tell you what it is.”

 

Erik likes this game. He leans in closer to the boy when he shuts his eyes and lets his own hand fall on the boy’s thigh. He flinches at the contact, the skin under his jeans warming instantly under his hands.

 

Xavier’s eyes fly open, appalled.

 

“Erik,” he says, almost chiding. “You’re—you’re thinking… really… filthy thoughts.”

 

The boy looks caught off guard, more so by the content of Erik’s mind than the hand on his thigh. Said hand moves higher and cups with more fervour. The thigh that fills out his jeans is thick and heat-exuding, shifting away slightly as his palm drags upwards.

 

“E-Erik,” the boy’s voice is hoarse. His eyes don’t dare to meet Erik’s, they only cautiously look to his sides. “Stop, Erik.”

 

“Why don’t you tell me what you read from my mind?” Erik asks, leaning closer to the flushed boy. His chest rises and falls with desperate, short breaths. “You know… if you _can_ really read it. I’m not entirely convinced.”

 

His brows furrow and his eyes finally meet Erik’s, with nothing else coming into view. Erik is close to climbing onto his lap, with the way he’s leaning so intrusively.

 

“Erik, move your hand— _please_.” His cheeks are reddening, close to matching the colour of his lips. His plush, shapely lips.

 

“Tell me and I’ll move it.”

 

The boy’s eyelashes flutter as he moves further back in his seat, mouth parted with shock. Then hesitant words decant from him,

 

“You – you want to have… _sex_ with me.”

 

Erik’s cock responds eagerly. He leers at him, placing an arm over the back of the boy’s chair.

 

“Mmm. Not too hard, is it?”

 

Xavier’s breathy pants fan Erik’s face. He smells of peppermint.

 

“No – no, not at all,” he denies, though Erik can tell he’s unsure of what he’s negating. When Erik raises his eyebrows, he shakes his head rigorously. Erik can now see himself in the blackness of the boy’s widening pupils.

 

“Mmm,” Erik hums again, nose coming in contact with the boy’s hot cheek. “You know what is hard, though?”

 

Erik effusively looks down at the swell prominent under the zip of his jeans.

 

Xavier looks aghast when he glances downward; like he hadn’t meant to, like he’d spent his entire life refraining from doing so, like he’ll serve a punishment for what he’s now done.

 

Erik relishes the sight.

 

His knee moves between Xavier’s, and now the pretty little thing’s completely engulfed. Erik moves his hand down and up, down and then further up, until the boy’s eyes fan shut and he brings himself to try and relax against his touch.

 

Then Erik pushes his hardness against the boy’s hip. He stills.

 

“We’re in a library…” the boy hisses with a strained voice; the peppermint pungent.

 

“Does that mean you wouldn’t be opposed to doing this elsewhere?”

 

Xavier shifts uncomfortably in his seat, trying to move away from Erik’s looming form. But he’s trapped between Erik and his chair, so every moment he makes is stiff.

 

Erik makes a suggestion. “What about your bed?”

 

The boy’s eyes skitter frantically from each of Erik’s. His chest starts to dramatically heave, and Erik takes in the sight of the wiry veins on his neck. Erik could devour him.

 

“But—but we… barely know each other.”

 

“What better way is there to get to know one another? Besides…”

 

Erik feels particularly brazen as he takes the boy’s innocently small hand and brings it down to the bulging swell of his erection.

 

 “…You already know I’m gifted.”

 

Xavier retracts his hand in a flash, chair almost knocking back, and Erik chuckles. He moves himself out of the boy’s space and stands to his full height to tower over him. He straightens his t-shirt.

 

“Listen, Xavier. You look like a nice boy. If you want to survive your first year without trouble, you’ll want me by your side.”

 

Xavier looks away from Erik to train his eyes on the ground, looking very much like he’s bearing the weight of an unfortunate memory.

 

“In places like these,” Erik briefly looks around him, “you’re going to want to stick to your kind.”

 

“But…” Xavier looks nonplussed, and he’s even pouting his lips for crying out loud. “I don’t fear them.”

 

Erik rolls his eyes.

 

“That’s because you’re more powerful than them.” He leans in close again, delving back into the peppermint infused air he steals, “Xavier – they fear you.”

 

A crease begins to form at his forehead, drawing his eyebrows to a steeple. Erik wonders if the boy is just plain stupid for not having discovered something so blatantly obvious.

 

“I’ve never had this problem before—”

 

“Xavier, this is no longer kindergarten. This place is tough. You’re a mutant in your first year who looks as lost and lonely as a lamb. You’re a bully’s dream.” He stands back again, chin high. “Trust me – I’ve been there. You’re lucky I’m making you this offer.”

 

“What offer?”

 

“ _Xavier_ ,” Erik implores, kneading the bridge of his nose, “I want to fuck you, alright? I fuck you, and just like that – we’re allies. I protect you from the more stupid race.”

 

“But you just said they fear _us._ Surely that means I don’t need to be protected against them.”

 

“There are few of us and more of them. We’re outnumbered. The fear they carry will only transpire into hatred. You’re already so naïve, Xavier. You walk around like an easy target.”

 

He looks scandalised. His eyes narrow to slits.

 

“I most certainly do _not_ —”

 

“I don’t want you to learn the hard way. All I’m saying is, your survival through your first year depends on have an ally like me. And in return for my fellowship, I’m only asking for you to—”

 

“Yes, yes, I know,” he quickly gabbles, flushing from cheek to cheek. “You’ve mentioned.”

 

Erik smirks.

 

“Good. How about we seal the deal?”

 

:::

 

His hands are determined to stay stuffed in his pockets. He doesn’t dare to meet Erik’s eyes, and he carefully doesn’t make any sound that could draw attention to himself.

 

There’s a tension permeating the air between them, and Erik decidedly wants to obliterate it.

 

And there isn’t a better way than to grope his arse and tug his small body towards his own in the middle of the austere ally way that leads to the boy’s dorm.

 

Xavier jumps in alarm, head almost knocking against Erik’s as he looks up at him. His eyes are still a discernible blue in the bleak darkness of the night, blinking rapidly as he steels himself against Erik’s enclosing grasp on his rear.

 

He leaves a hand to roam around the firm curve of his shapely arse and lets the other sweep upwards to hold the back of his head. He lightly yanks him by the hair so their mouths align, and pushes his tongue down between the lips already parted in surprise.

 

Xavier pants into the kiss like he’s never been kissed with such spontaneous fervour and slowly brings his hands up to make fists in Erik’s shirt.  

 

Erik pulls the boy closer by his hold around his head and presses his lips down, harder and harder with each suck of his shy tongue. Xavier’s lips are more voluptuous than any male Erik’s ever kissed, more naturally ruby red than any female he’s ever kissed, and yet demure enough to let Erik do all the work.

 

The boy begins to whimper like he’s struggling for air, and squirms in Erik’s enveloping hold as he tries to pull away. Erik withdraws his bottom lip from its press on Xavier’s and feels him catching his breath against his own mouth. His upper lip stays adhered to Xavier’s so he can capture every peppermint pant and closely hear the way he struggles for steady lungful’s of air.

 

Insatiable, Erik darts his tongue over the boy’s plush bottom lip, watching the shining sheen of his saliva colour it darker. He sinks his teeth into the swollen lip, tugging it closer and then repeating the action to listen to the small cry of pain coming from the back of Xavier’s throat. Erik kisses the side of his mouth, then keeps his lips sealed on his as he indulges in his grip on his arse. He pulls him flush with his erection, enjoying the way Xavier is forcefully having to breathe through his nose.

 

Erik grunts and pulls the hem of Xavier’s sweaters up to get as little layers between their groins as possible. He tows him further and their teeth clang, lightly, but their groins grind together in an obscene motion that leaves Erik gasping for more.

 

Looking like the recklessly hormonal teenager he is.

 

:::

 

Charles Xavier wears too many bloody clothes and he should burn them all when he looks like this.

 

This.

 

Erik looks from where he stands back, like the proud painter of a masterpiece, and chokes out a small laugh.

 

Xavier flushes from one stretch of taut pale skin to the other. Erik’s only managed to wrestle the boy out of five layers – for fuck’s sake – and that means he’s shirtless. Just shirtless.

 

Still worryingly gorgeous though.

 

The bed creaks obscenely under his added weight.

 

“Please tell me you’ve done this before,” Erik whispers, pitch both high and low. He moves his face down so it hovers over the boy’s. He swallows audibly.

 

“I-ss—um, I’ve had sex before?” he sounds like Erik would know better.

 

Erik never knows better.

 

“Fuck,” he groans, placing his body over his and grinding down against the front of Xavier’s jeans. He should really get credit for stringing the next sentence coherently, “have you had sex with a man before?”

 

Xavier drops his head back on the pillow, until his forehead is almost flat against the headboard behind him. Long line of neck awaits Erik’s mouth. He leans closer, their clothed cocks now overly heated with unrelenting friction, and drops his mouth sloppily onto his Adam’s apple.

 

“N-no… There was just this g-girl in senior year… ahh…” 

 

Erik feels the vibrations of the words, but not the connotations. He lifts his mouth, a string of saliva joining him, as he quirks a brow.

 

Senior year? This boy must be impressive, on some spectrum, to have shagged a girl in senior year.

 

He lets that gem of a thought slide away, reigned by some sort of jealousy, as he gyrates his hips again.

 

The boy underneath him – fine, practically squashed under his weight – is not meeting his gaze, but continues to make keening noises.

 

“Y-You still want to fuck me?” the boy asks the headboard, lips now quivering. He moves his head down, Erik clutching his cheeks harshly, until he faces him.

 

“Look at me when I fuck you. Understand?”

 

“But… but I’ve never done this, Erik,” his voice is strained, words slurred. A tear shines in his eye. He looks mortified all of a sudden. The dim light in the room does nothing to hide the boy’s crumpling face. He suddenly looks a child, burning with shame after being caught on a rollercoaster he’s too young to be on—

 

“How old are you?” the questions elicits a frightful gasp from the boy’s lips. Erik leans minutely away from him, heartbeat now a pounding in his ears. He can’t believe he hasn’t already asked. A boy that looks like this can’t be a day over…

 

“I-I’m almost seventeen.”

 

Erik fists a hand in his hair. His hair is too soft. His bones click under skin.

 

“ _What_?! Xavier, you’re a fucking _child_!”

 

Then his mind takes this ghastly moment to crack a fucking joke.

 

_Erik – you’re fucking a child._

 

:::

 

Erik Lehnsherr takes two very simple things into consideration when he fucks someone.

 

The first – age. The second – gain.

 

And then Charles bloody Xavier stumbles into his life and suddenly, Erik Lehnsherr is defying his own self.

 

Whatever vow of protection he had pledged to had been complete and utter bullshit that always worked, so always stuck.

 

The boy is now sniffling. His tear streaks over his cheek.

 

“You don’t want to fuck me anymore, do you?” he asks. His voice wavers like he’s talking in front of a fan. He’s meeting Erik’s gaze submissively, but now Erik wishes he hadn’t asked him to. He doesn’t want to see the boy fucking cry.

 

But the boy cries so prettily.

 

Fuck.

 

Erik growls, nostrils flaring. He’s hard – he’s so damn hard, he could jerk off to the sounds Xavier makes when he cries. And that’s fucking disgusting, considering Erik prides himself on being moderately moral, but the boy has the most expressive face he’s ever seen and the tears in his eyes twinkle like fucking stars. It’s dark, but his trembling lips are still painted shades darker than the rest of him – a grapefruit pink hard not to imagine – and when he whimpers like a child—

 

… _Erik, you fucker, he is one_ …

 

—Erik finds himself tugging his own shirt off. He has to concentrate extremely hard at manipulating the belt out of its loops as Xavier tugs a shaky bottom lip under his teeth.

 

His skin glistens with sweat and tears. His blue eyes sparkle when he’s crying. Charles Xavier is a fucking fairy and why the hell has Erik not walked away yet.

 

He places a kiss on his neck – which he shouldn’t do, and then a soothing one on his collarbone – which he also shouldn’t do. What he _should_ do, is kiss him on the forehead and pull the blanket up to his shoulders as he tucks him into bed. Then ask him if he’s brushed his teeth as he wishes him good night and leaves.

 

He shouldn’t be clawing at his own jeans to release his throbbing cock.

 

 “What?” Xavier looks flummoxed as he sweeps his hand over his cheek. He leans on his elbows as he watches Erik climb out of his jeans. “Why are you undressing yourself? Why haven’t you left yet?”

 

Exactly. Clever kid.

 

“Because, Xavier…” he mutters with his gravelly voice, in no mood to talk or discuss the thought processes behind his actions.

 

His answer doesn’t satisfy the boy though, because he’s adorably crinkling his eyebrows. He wipes another tear.

 

“But I’m sixteen.”

 

“Don’t remind me.” A low grumble.

 

“And I’m not at all attractive.”

 

Erik’s head snaps up from where it’s looking at the push of his erection against the soft cotton of his boxers.

 

And that reminds him of the ulterior motive. Gain.

 

Xavier may be a minor, but he’s going to be the one that helps restore his pride and win his own game. The fact that Xavier is attractive is just the bonus. He is.

 

“You are attractive,” he says vacantly, though his heart agrees most ardently.

 

“No,” the boy shakes his head. “I’m scrawny… and, and hardly muscular… and I have pasty white skin and sparse sexual experience… and then I’m a dweeb, a sixteen year old _dweeb_.”

 

Erik is looking down at the boy’s jeans like they’re the answer to every conundrum in the world. His erection is prominent. Erik’s, on the other hand, is the flag at the top of a mountain. A proud proclamation of unmitigated arousal.

 

He lets his eyes rake over to Xavier’s body; his face. He looks expectant of an answer. Erik doesn’t know what to say.

 

“Xavier, just let me fuck you.”

 

He blinks, turning his face to the side.

 

“You think I’m ugly,” he whispers quietly, chest heaving now. He’s transgressing by looking at the side. Erik turns his face again.

 

“No. I don’t. Or I wouldn’t be doing this, would I?”

 

Which is an utter lie, but Erik can’t be bothered telling Xavier he’s the prettiest thing he has ever seen.  

 

Demonstrative of his approval, he places a kiss on the boy’s lips. His lips are like oranges. Soft and cushiony and juicy with an addictive taste. His tongue peeks through and Erik protrudes his own against it, battling for the reign over his sweet mouth. Xavier subsides and lets Erik kiss roughly into his mouth, jutting his tongue in and out as he moans from the back of his throat. He places his hand around his pale neck, stroking tender flesh with the bud of his thumb.

 

His other hand, prompted by the nagging of his neglected cock, moves down to Xavier’s jeans.

 

 _Xavier’s jeans_ , the blinking light at the end of a tunnel, the reinstating of pride in the form of crippling pleasure.

 

He fingers the button out and slips his hand under immediately, finding a slick cock with a hotness Erik savours with his hand. It pulses as his own does, angling up with desire—

 

Erik moves down.

 

He shifts further until he’s almost face to face with the boy’s crotch. Xavier is moaning aloud, fisting his hand in the pillow as he feels the loss of Erik’s touch.

 

Erik tugs his jeans down in a rapid instant.

 

Xavier lifts his hips as he gasps.

 

Erik drops his jaw as he gasps.

 

Pale flesh. There’s pale flesh, there’s a half-erect cock, and there is no underwear.

 

No underwear.

 

“Fuck, Xavier,” he places the heels of his hands into his eyes. “You wear more bloody layers than years you’ve lived and yet you go _commando_!”

 

The boy looks intensely plaintive. He stammers over his words, looking like he had failed at trying to impress. Erik is too outraged to feel impressed. Too outraged to be conscious about how ridiculous he looks, fretting over underwear.

 

And then the boy, strangely, curls his lips inwards like he’s about to cry again, and pleads,

 

“Sorry. Won’t happen again… Please don’t leave?”

 

Erik swallows. He looks down at their dripping erections. He looks up at Xavier’s withering face. He shuts his eyes and remembers,

 

 _The boy is sixteen. His underwear is nowhere in sight. Walk away. He’s a virgin, for crying out loud. Erik, do something right. Walk. Away_.

 

“I – I just… I’ve never been looked at the way you do…” the boy is hissing through sobs. Then he has the audacity to kick his jeans off and slowly part his legs. Fuck. Erik’s now ogling without shame. “We don’t have to do it again… I just really want some-someone around… to touch me the way you do…”

 

 _Walk away, Erik. Even the boys will understand if you tell them he’s underage_.

 

“Like this?” says Erik the bloody lunatic, as he skims his hands over his damp inner thighs. So pale and so unmarked that Erik feels his breath stutter in anticipation. Xavier responds beautifully, arching his back and covering Erik’s hands with his own as they travel up and down his thighs. Not guiding, but feeling. His eyes shut and Erik watches his mouth part. He has no words to describe this boy.

 

This boy, who’s so despairingly touch-starved, and oblivious to his own allure, and so responsive to everything Erik does.

 

He knows he shouldn’t. He knows his only gain will be a regretful Xavier and a wasted day, deficient of any success for his gamble, and yet strewn with memories of the boy that craves his touch like no ever has and will—

 

No, Erik thinks, scornfully. This boy is nothing special. He’s going to fuck him and then leave him, find someone else to beg for his touch, because he knows his effect. Erik Lehnsherr can never find it hard to get a bed mate. Charles Xavier is nothing special. Just because he cries and sobs and moans with every touch, doesn’t mean he’s special. He’s going to lose his pride because of him. His friends will laugh at him, tell him he’s pathetic, incapable. He’ll have to do all the housework until the end of semester because of him. He’ll be committing an illicit act because of him.

 

And yet the only thing that seems illicit is how the hell Charles Xavier hasn’t managed to be pushed up a wall and fucked senseless already. How that hasn’t been done, how someone has refrained from doing so – is completely beyond Erik’s comprehension.

 

Erik will gladly do the honours. He’s the hardest he’s ever been, dripping with precome, but there’s absolutely no way he’s going to fuck this kid again. Fucking Xavier is costing him already, and this boy doesn’t seem like he’s opposed to a one night stand.

 

 _Just tonight_ , Erik thinks gruffly, as he scrambles for the tube of lube from out of his jeans. He spurts out an abundant amount onto his palm and begins slicking his fingers. The denim material is discarded far away. His own cock needs hardly any preparation, and he knows one stroke will probably send him off, so he focuses on the kid splayed out underneath him. Whom he most certainly won’t fuck ever again. Ever.

 

Unaffectionate, he presses a moist finger inside the boy’s hole and watches him spread his legs further as he pants.

 

He’s so fucking beautiful, Erik has to look away, down at his cock. It’s twitching and thrumming as it responds to Xavier’s sounds; the tightness of him around his one finger, soon joined by another.

 

“No! W-Wait, please…” Xavier begs, pawing at Erik’s hands. Erik persists, without abating. He only slows down a little bit. “Is this supposed to hurt so bad?”

 

“Yes,” Erik retorts, unknowing. He’s never fucked a virgin. This boy, all round, is trouble.

 

Another finger finds its way inward, scissoring inside the screaming boy.

 

“ERIK! _Please_ , just… just…”

 

“For fuck’s sake, Xavier, stay still.” The boy continues to wobble at the knees and thrash with his hands. Erik takes his legs and hikes them over his shoulders. His face comes between his trembling thighs, surprisingly muscular.  

 

He hasn’t even started fucking into him yet. And his cock is much, much bigger.

 

“It hurts,” he whispers, his chest rising and falling rapidly. His nipples are as pink as his lips and his blue eyes are shining. He’s going to cry again, Erik knows, and he knows perfectly well what that does to his cock.

 

He squeezes more lube out and shoves all three fingers inside again. This time Xavier grits his teeth as he arches his neck, the ring of muscle clenching out of pain. Erik tries to find his prostrate, but with the way he’s shivering, Erik decides against it.

 

He looks down at his cock, so ached and neglected, he can feel a strain in his veins. Its colour has darkened, darker than Xavier’s, and he quickly takes his fingers out.

 

Xavier looks down from over his heaving chest. Erik takes in the sight of his rippling stomach, the lines of his torso, and the peek of his ribcage. Erik finds himself wondering why he wears so many clothes, again.

 

Why he doesn’t wear just one more essential piece.

 

Why the thought of him walking around without underwear, bare in his jeans, seems to trump over his anger and instead make him moan as he teases the boy’s entrance with the head of his cock.

 

He cries out in protest, anguished.

 

“N- _no_ , Erik, please, not y-yet… not ready yet… not ready yet…”

 

He wants nothing more than to bark at the boy, silence him with a domineering spank, but the pained moans that escape him are too intoxicating to his ears. He has no time and no patience to be gentle with the boy. The boy awakens the worst of his arousal. Everything he does has an aphrodisiac quality to it.

 

 

“Shh,” Erik hisses, moving down to bend him further and cover his mouth with his as he speaks. “It’s alright, it’ll stop hurting.”

 

“O-k-okay… okay…”

 

He places a placating kiss on his lips then, as he pushes into his tight hole. Instinctively, Erik takes his hands and pins them to either of his sides.

 

The first thrust is harsh, and he knows. He’s devastatingly close already – really, it’s appalling, and Xavier will never see this day again – so he knows it’ll only take a few forceful thrusts for him to be done.

 

It’s barely pleasurable for Xavier. He’s making fists so strong, Erik can feel the powerful flex of muscle and divulgence of bone from where he’s clamping down his wrists. Inadvertently the boy is clenching – Erik would tell him it’s going to hurt more, doing that, if it wasn’t driving him into the oceans of euphoria.

 

Or maybe he’s clenching because he knows Erik likes it. After all, Erik is panting and whimpering and moaning into the boy’s ear.

 

But then it’s not like Xavier knows the ghastly fact that even his damned cries are turning him on, bringing him closer to his peak and making him more and more visceral, less rational—

 

“Fuck,” he curses, then curses in German, then curses because Xavier’s arse is so pert and lush, and then again, right on the brink, when he realises in a blaring thought:

 

_Condoms. He’s bare-backing. He’s bloody bare-backing. He’s not wearing a condom._

 

“Shit,” he grunts, biting on his lip, but now Xavier is weeping obscenely, jerking his shoulders violently.

 

“Don’t you _dare_ come inside me!” he puts on his most formidable voice amongst the wrecking sobs he can’t impede. “Don’t… _Erik_!”

 

Erik could’ve pulled out, located his jeans from where they’ve been divested, opened a wrapper, slotted it on, gone back into his lovely hole, restarted the rapturous rhythm he’s got going—

 

No. There’s no way that’s going to happen. Erik doesn’t have that much self-control, and where’s the assurance that Xavier will continue to writhe the way he is? So vulnerable, so dominated.

 

He’s still not fully inside the boy, so he goes further, shushing him when he weeps just because he can.

 

He thrusts slowly but deeply now, sloppily placing a kiss on his mouth. The boy is so keen to kiss back, but he barely can with the way his pain tolls through him. Erik nuzzles his neck instead, licking away the sweat and the salty tears that have escaped to land there.

 

His orgasm is so near, he can feel it dancing in his toes, the sensation crawling through the fatigue in his limbs. He’s so entangled, so enthralled with the feel of the boy – his euphonic sobs, his fucking ethereal eyes, his untouched skin, the thrill of being the first to touch and caress and lick it…

 

… that he doesn’t realise the small thing he could’ve done for him.

 

The blissed-out groan of pleasure is muffled by the skin of Xavier’s shoulder.

 

His cheeks are flushed and his cock starts to go flaccid inside the boy.

 

Slowly, he releases his hold on his wrists first. One, then the other.

 

Next, he pulls his sweat-streaked legs down from around him.

 

Then he pulls out; the dripping an ominous sight, as is the squelching sound. Erik finds his cheeks burn for a different reason. 

 

Xavier is completely still. His skin is hot and his eyes are unfocused as they blink at the ceiling.

 

“S-sorry,” Erik slurs. He shouldn’t feel as pathetic as he does. He’s just had the most wonderful orgasm, even if it had been slightly tainted with guilt and disgust. He shouldn’t feel bad for Xavier, just because his first time has ended so badly. “I—um… Xavier, I’m sorry.”

 

Finally, Xavier moves. He wipes the tear that’s crawling to his jaw with a shaky hand. Then he turns to his side, to the extreme end of the bed.

 

“Xavier,” he calls, moving to fall next to him. He scoots closer to his body, but he budges away. He sighs. “I’m sorry.”

 

“I heard.” His voice is rough. Cried-out.

 

He knows he should’ve touched his cock and made an attempt to chase the boy’s orgasm. He knows he should’ve pulled out and came elsewhere; it would’ve looked wonderful on his abdomen, he inwardly thinks. In fact he shouldn’t have done this at all, because now the boy’s sad and for some reason, Erik’s heart feels heavy.

 

Now of all times, he’s feeling sympathy.

 

“Xavier, if you—”

 

“Could you please leave.”

 

Shocked, Erik withdraws the hand that’s about to skim through the boy’s hair.

 

“Listen I’ll—”

 

“I said, _leave_.”

 

He feels a jolt in his mind, one that tampers him into submission, and he knows very well that he doesn’t want to leave as he does.

 

In his debt, again.


	2. Chapter 2

 

Of course nobody will believe him.

 

“I don’t care if you don’t believe me, but I did.”

 

The truth is, Erik does care. Erik does care about whether his friends believe what he’s said.

 

“It’s a good excuse, dude,” Bobby had retorted appraisingly. “But I’m not buying it.”

 

Erik had stormed into the lounge again, meeting him dead in the eye as he had stood in front of the television. Azazel winced.

 

“I fucked him to tears.”

 

Bobby’s mouth had fallen open. Then he’d quickly shut it as he schooled his expression into incredulity.

 

“Where’s the evidence, then?”

 

“I told you,” Erik sighed, sweeping a hand over his hair. “He wasn’t wearing any.”

 

Then he would remember again. That fusion of shock and arousal as he yanked his jeans down and saw all that milky white skin, the tantalising lines of his hipbones, the small dusting of hair that led down to his glistening, plump cock…

 

“But you lost. You don’t have your evidence, so you lost. The boy’s ours now, and—”

 

“No,” Erik shot, fist forming at his side. “I said I’d do it in two weeks, didn’t I? I still have enough time, then. I’ll get you the evidence.”

 

And yet Erik can’t tell you how. Erik, the mastermind of strategizing and forward-thinking and trapping adult men of elite societies – can’t determine a way of getting back into young Xavier’s pants without outright begging.

 

Alright, fine, so prior Erik _had_ insisted on never fucking him again, but his self-control is poor and Xavier’s too pretty for an adamant one-night affair. Too damned pretty, he thinks, as he trudges over the sidewalk with hands stuffed in his pockets and eyes trained on the looming and retreating figures around him.

 

He’s already downed all of Azazel’s badly hidden stash of vodka, and the buzz of inebriation is yet to dissipate. In fact he’s inclined to venture out for more; any drug-comprised stimulant from any country that can keep him from feeling—

 

Guilt.

 

Though just a tiny dash of it, something _is_ there. Something is almost bound to be, what with the way that boy had lost his endearing spark and had just collapsed into a distant, wrecked mess.

 

Whatever guilt or responsibility-for-his-irresponsibility Erik is now having to suffer through, has to be numbed. Or amended. Either way, it can’t be there in the morning, since it has been for the past few.

 

As the bar gets larger in view and smaller in distance, Erik absently ruffles his hand through his hair and continues to eye the passers by. Some Erik can vaguely remember from classes, a few he has to duck away from in fear of recognition, and one in particular who has to be the prettiest thing he’s ever seen—

 

The prettiest thing he’s ever seen.

 

Aha.

 

“Xav—Charles! _Charles_!”

 

As his tongue leaps forth for the bellow of his name across a dark street, Erik feels a tug in his gut. A tug of anticipation, hot and deep and winding out another urgent yell of the boy’s hardly regarded name. Erik’s effort, really, must be commended someday.

 

“Charles! Xavier!”

 

Heads turn as Erik skips past the throngs of drunken masses and towards the boy, now standing still against a tree trunk. Erik slows down to a quick walk as he nears him and tries to produce a friendly smile. He’s had to work at it – he’s aware of his tendency to resemble some particularly toothy marine creatures.

 

“Charles,” he calls, but the boy abruptly – to Erik’s bemusement – fleets in the direction of the telephone booth behind the tree. “Oh, for c—Xavier, I’m not going to—”

 

Bite? He wouldn’t bet on that. Xavier’s skin is particularly biteable.

 

He continues to stalk away at full speed, until he’s swinging open the door of the booth and hurling himself inside, like there isn’t another calling him; following him. Erik almost has to laugh – at how ridiculous this chase is, and how quickly more guilt-like emotions toll through Erik. The very same ones Erik is trying to repress.

 

He takes a moment to bring himself face to face with the door to peer at the boy through the glass. Xavier backs away further inside the cuboid space, eyes large and pleading. He has his numerous layers in tact, all baby blue’s and pearly white’s. He’s clutching onto the receiver like it’s a lifeline and blanches even more, despite of the cold air that has been painting his cheeks pink.   

 

“Xavier,” he mouths clearly and voices loudly, plastering his face against the glass. Then he takes a step back and forcefully opens the door, reaching for the receiver from his hands and placing it back in its hold. Xavier gasps a little. Erik takes a step back, for the frightened boy’s sake. Commendable, really. He takes a deep, exasperated breath. “Look, Xavier. Let me talk to you. Please.”

 

The warmth of the alcohol is starting to evade him. The only thing that’s warm out here is Xavier, with his thick cotton jumpers and hot breaths.

 

“I’m… busy. I mean, I have to make a call. Home. If you’ll excuse me?”

 

“No. We should talk first.”

 

This time, when Xavier reaches for the telephone, Erik simply forces the number dials down into their sockets so they can’t be pressed. The _click_ sound makes his head whirl, and soon Xavier finds himself placing the receiver down, disappointed. He keeps his gaze away then, as Erik quickly steers his own down Xavier’s body. Layers, ratty gloves, layers, metal rimmed belt, tight-fitting jeans. So much so, that the seam running along the side of his jeans curves outwards with his thighs, just slightly on the good side of too-tight, allowing Erik’s mind to roam; perhaps too tight for his hand to fit through, past the waist band, but then maybe _just_ enough to accommodate—

 

“Fine,” Xavier hurriedly clears his throat. “But if you could make it quick, please.”

 

It takes a while for Erik to understand what he’s referring to.

 

“Right – about that night, I just—”

 

Xavier draws a long breath, like he’s about to interrupt, so Erik gabbles on before he can speak.

 

“I’m terribly sorry for being rough on you that night.”

 

_Thank you for giving me your virginity_.

 

“I want to make it up to you.”

 

_I still need your fucking underwear._

 

“Can’t we forget it ever happened and start over as friends?” he asks, all shy and red-cheeked, toeing the asphalt with white sneakers.

 

Now, Erik doesn’t keep friends he wants to fuck. And Erik wants to fuck Xavier. He doesn’t want to befriend him. He wants to know if his hands will fit down his pants, for crying out loud.

 

“But I feel awful,” he drops his shoulders, feigning a regretful sigh. “I shouldn’t have done what I did – especially after what I had promised. It wasn’t right of me.”

 

“It would be better if we stayed friends, Erik,” Xavier insists, looking impatient.

 

“It would be better if we ended our deal on better terms, Xavier,” he retorts, challenging his look of impatience with one of his own.

 

“But,” Xavier pouts, crestfallen as he leans against the booth. “I don’t have many friends…” He pauses, deep in thought, considering his words. “Actually – drop the ‘m’ from that sentence.”

 

And without that letter, without just the one letter, Erik’s expression shifts.

 

Xavier continues, shoulders shrugging as he confesses, “I could really do with one.”

 

“Of course,” he says flatly, folding his arms. “But I’m not exactly someone you’d want to be friends with. We made a deal, remember?”

 

“Surely… that would mean we’re friends, right? You said yourself people like us should stick together. And I’ve never been good at making friends before. Ever since I was little, in fact. They’ve always been mutantphobic, or homophobic, or just judgemental, of everything else I’m sensitive about.”

 

And poor Charlie Xavier thinks Erik can fill that gap. Right.

 

“You’ve known you were gay since you were little?” he asks, instead.

 

“Well – well – I’m bi, actually.” He blushes. The boy actually blushes. “But yes I’ve known I’m attracted to the same sex for a long time. I’ve just been waiting to – to have – to have—”

 

“To have sex.”

 

“Yes, tha—to have sex, yes, because I wanted my first time to be special.”

 

Mistake. Erik does not need to know that. Erik does not need to see the boy’s lips purse, and his eyes drop to a dejected frown. He could’ve done without that.

 

“But it doesn’t matter.” By Xavier’s voice, Erik can tell it does. “It doesn’t matter. It’s just – I’m new here, and you’ve been kind enough to show me around or at least offer to. And that’s… nice. It’s friendly. I need a friend.”

 

Erik thinks over this. Is he going to now make a deal to offer his friendship for another glorious night of fucking Xavier to pieces and then feeling guilty about it?

 

He tries to imagine Xavier becoming a part of their Nazi hunting escapades. Xavier probably couldn’t even hurt a bug. He’d probably open the door for it and let it pass first. And if they were – God forbid – friends, Xavier would be off limits for fucking. It would also mean he’s responsible for a sixteen year old. How would they get anywhere with a sixteen year old? At least with offering protection, the chances of him needing Erik are scarce, and to the least of Erik’s knowledge or care.

 

“I have no interest in being your chummy buddy. I think we should fuck one last time.”

 

Xavier heaves a long, agonised sigh. He clamps his cotton-clad hands together, like he’s begging.

 

“Erik – do you not remember the last time? It wasn’t exactly enjoyable for me, and I have no desire to inflict such pain upon myself again.”

 

“Xavier, it won’t bloody hurt this time.”

 

“Can’t we be platonic friends?”

 

“No. Can’t we fuck instead?”

 

“ _No._ I think that’ll be all then.”

 

“Fine.”

 

“Fine. Now please excuse me.”

 

Erik pretends he doesn’t notice Xavier’s creasing forehead as he furiously gaits towards the bar.

 

The dials click back up into position as he leaves.

 

:::

 

Erik Lehnsherr doesn’t get rejected. Said man doesn’t know what to do with himself when he is rejected. Because Erik Lehnsherr doesn’t get rejected.

 

“Hey, heard you got rejected,” Summer’s stupid voice rings through his ears.

 

And that’s the last straw, because now Erik’s stumbling to his feet, Alex’s collar in tow. Then he realises, as he tugs the tough material of his jacket, that Alex’s not coming up with his collars. He pulls again, teeth gritted tightly. Alex’s still seated on his barstool.

 

Right. Fuck.

 

Metal – metal – where’s the bloody metal on his—

 

A kick to the shin.

 

Fuck, that actually hurts. He tries to stand up straight from where he’s doubled over, but now he’s being shoved out through the door.

 

Heh. He didn’t have to pay, at least.

 

:::

 

He knows he’s no longer vertical when he sees a moon before his nose. His first inquiry is _Where am I?_ until he realises that he’s on the ground, and his arse his sore.

 

A face peers at him to replace the moon. A very worried face, white as the moon itself. A very pretty face, too.

 

“Charles Xavier. Have you come to rescue me?”

 

Then an arm is swung over his shoulder in a rapid instance that happens too quickly for Erik to stop it.

 

“Come on,” Xavier grunts as he adjusts Erik’s swaying weight on his shoulders with a small jump, and loops his other arm around Erik’s waist. The very same area begins to emit heat like a furnace.

 

“Hell are you doing…” Erik manages to say, as he staggers over the pavement in difficult, heavy steps.

 

“Taking you home,” Xavier says with ambition.

 

“You don’t know where I live,” he mutters. He may have spat a little.

 

“You live in the maroon building. You projected the image in my mind as you thought about it.”

 

“You’re too fucking young to be doing this, _Xav-eee—urr_ ,” he slurs, blinking down at the boy holding him up.

 

_I’ve done it so many times with my mother._

 

“Oh lord – you didn’t hear something, did you?” Xavier panics, stilling on the sidewalk.

 

“No,” Erik lies. He’ll probably forget that tomorrow, anyway. He cares least about people’s personal tragedies.

 

Xavier considers this, the way he tends to – like there are words in front of his eyes that he’s reading over to approve of.

 

But then they continue, or at least Xavier is proceeding to partly drag and partly hop Erik across the campus at midnight. It’s probably a heck of a scene, this, but if he’s to stop and care about it, his head would hurt.

 

Erik doesn’t remember climbing stairs, but they must have, because now he’s leaning against the banister in the landing.

 

“Up, up,” Xavier chimes, as he presses his side against Erik’s to shift his weight. Xavier’s surprisingly strong, managing to carry Erik’s deadweight dexterously with light steps that have a better idea of where they’re heading to than the resident of the dorm himself. The heat coming from Xavier, combined with the swirling warmth of liquor that still circulates his body, all starts to make him feel light-bodied and heavy-headed as he leans into the boy at his side.

 

It’s hard for him to let Xavier mother him this way, and so competently, but Erik’s knackered and Xavier is fitting against him like a mattress, so he’ll probably have to chastise him in the morning. Chastise seems too long a word to be acted upon right now.

 

“Keys?”

 

Erik ignores him to lift his finger to the door, frowning as he turns it a memorised degree, and flits the tumblers to his own volition. He pulls the door open and doesn’t miss the jittery enthusiasm Xavier radiates as he smiles at him.

 

“How marvellous,” he hisses once they’ve stumbled inside the unlit lounge. “You know, you could potentially—”

 

“Xavier, when w’you leave?” he grunts, fighting off the boy’s invitingly warm touch along his waist. “Can manage now, thank you very much.”

 

Xavier doesn’t reply. He doesn’t rearrange his arm around his again, either. Erik grunts. He only loosely tugs on Erik’s elbow.

 

“There’s nobody else here,” Xavier points out, steering Erik around the kitchen islands.

 

“ve’All gone out. Bastards.”

 

“Is this your room?” he asks, voice soft. He must’ve taken it straight out of Erik’s jumbled head, because he opens the door and ushers Erik inside.

 

Erik plonks straight onto the bed, body stretching out across the fabric of his comforter. It’s not as soft as being covered by Xavier’s warm, woolly grip, but it’ll suffice.

 

He blinks up at Xavier with unfocused eyes, waiting for him to make a move. He stands at the side of the bed inert for a long moment before going to draw the curtains at the other side of the bed. After Xavier’s closed them, leaning up on the balls of his feet, he crosses Erik again to get back to the door. Erik quickly takes the boy by his wrist.

 

“Xavier… C’mere…”

 

He stares down at Erik before covering Erik’s hand with his own. His fingers gently peel off Erik’s from his wrist and lets the limp hand fall back onto the bed.

 

“Hey, come on…” he drawls, head lolling against the pillow. “Take your clothes off, I’m givin’ you a much needed head start, and then come over—”

 

“No, Erik,” he cuts, an unmistakeable defiance in his tone. “Nobody’s taking their clothes off. Now go to sleep.”

 

“But you’re _here_ , and I want to _fuck_ you…”

 

“I’m sorry, Erik. Go to sleep.”

 

And then he does. It all goes dark, and he does exactly that.

 

:::

 

Erik wakes to the raging ache of his skull and a leaping stomach brimming with bile.

 

He yanks the covers off – how they’re there, how he’s here, he doesn’t know – and rises to his feet lethargically, bolting mentally in a desperate attempt, but leaving his body behind in the bed. He lands on the ground.

 

“Christ!” a voice hoots, far too bright and vigilant for Erik’s ears. Only slightly familiar.

 

“Mmmhhfff.”

 

“Come on,” someone shuffles behind him, hitching his arm atop themself. “You’re not vomiting on the carpet, chap.”

 

Who even talks like that?

 

For the second time in the same night – supposedly, if the darkness is something to use for an assumption – he’s manhandled into the other room. This time it’s the restroom, and this time it’s just what he needs to—

 

“Dear, God, Erik,” a voice murmurs over the sound of his successive hurling into the sink. A hand pats gently on his back and his body shudders and convulses with the outward pull of every internal gunky liquid there is. If he wasn’t throwing up so violently, he would’ve perhaps felt sorry for the person who stands there the whole time, rubbing circles between his shoulder blades and withstanding the rancid smells and sounds.

 

When he feels like his intestines have been scooped out to emptiness, he turns the faucet and washes his face, thoroughly, and gurgles water in and out of his mouth until at least the acrid taste is gone. A pale hand passes him toothpaste and he looks at it for a while before glancing up at the mirror.

 

Xavier.

 

He swallows, remembers how vile that is to do, and quickly forages for his toothbrush. He then lets Xavier squeeze a profuse amount onto the brush and rigorously scrubs at every inch of his mouth.

 

His eyes are deliberately set away from Xavier the whole time he brushes. When he rinses his mouth and mops himself dry, he purposely pretends the boy doesn’t exist as he slumps back down into bed.

 

It’s just unsettling, knowing that someone like Xavier has seen Erik in such a repelling state, and probably relished the sight. The entire prospect of having the upper hand over somebody much older than him, just after rejecting him the second time round – it all must be thrilling him.

 

“Are you feeling better?” Xavier asks, concerned, as he breezes past the light switch of the restroom that’s still on. “I could get you a glass of water if you’d like.”

 

“Why are you still here?” he retorts instead, mouth contorting to a scowl.

 

“I- I just… I was about to leave, truly, but I was worried about you… and I noticed you left the door lock unlocked and now I can’t lock it, so if I was to leave, a person could easily come in and I can’t let that happen, can I? But mainly I’m exhausted and I live too far away and it’s dark out and I’m really sleepy.”

 

Erik knows his expression’s probably similar to a stone, but he’s indifferent to looking like he even gives a fuck. It’s like the kid’s taunting Erik by sleeping in his room and intending to stay. Without being fucked, without being kissed, without being touched. Nobody looking like Xavier has the liberty to just doze off in his bedroom without doing one of the above.

 

He clearly senses Erik’s disapproval because he jabbers on, arms hanging clumsily at his side.

 

“I promise you won’t even notice me. I’ll just sleep on the ground like I was before—”

 

“Xavier. You went into my mind. You manipulated me.” Had me at your mercy. Could’ve done anything with me, to me. Kind of intimidate me. Kind of.

 

If Erik was unsettled and disorientated before, now he’s angry. His jaw is taut.

 

“I’m sorry.” Erik is surprised by this. “I’m really sorry. I should’ve asked for your permission, and I will next time, but you were completely off-balance and saying things you didn’t mean.”

 

Erik contemplates his last few words. Saying things he didn’t mean? Asking Xavier to take his clothes off and slip into his bed wasn’t _meant_? Erik has to cringe at Xavier’s naivety.

 

“Whatever,” he groans, hand massaging his forehead. “Just – just – whatever.”

 

Xavier looks positively relieved, then glances over at Erik with hopeful eyes that beam up at him under the distant restroom light.

 

“Is your head hurting? I could help you with—”

 

“Xavier, just shut up. Go to sleep or go away.”

 

It’s a little bit harsh, but his headache is turning into a hangover already, in the depth of the night, and even Xavier’s low voice can be like a shrill shout to the ears.    

 

Then it’s quiet. Xavier doesn’t gasp a word as he drifts off, rather uncomfortably, on the ground, with his head resting against the bed. Erik rolls over to peer at him and wonders, briefly, if his neck hurts from the bad posture. It must.

 

Eight more minutes pass into the night. There’s no sign of the boys’ arrival, or their presence for that matter, and Erik can care less, if it isn’t for the younger boy sitting on the carpet in his room.

 

He’s still got his head leant back onto the bed, his Adam’s apple a tempting bump in his elongated throat. Erik looks down at his heaving chest, slow and steady in his slumber, and then down to his tight denim jeans. Erik wets his lips.

 

But soon Erik’s wondering if Xavier’s naked under those jeans. He shifts up on his elbows and leans to the side, towards Xavier’s body, and finds his shirts and jumpers and the whole lot have bunched up to expose some tender flesh at his hip. Erik breathes deeply.

 

The boy’s mouth is slightly parted. Probably out of numbing pain – that posture is incredibly painful – but his lips are so soft and relaxed, plush and pink, that Erik has to wonder what they must feel like around his cock.

 

He remembers vividly what his hole had felt like. Tight and slick, surrounding his cock and clenching down on it as he’d pushed in further and elicited more devastating sounds…

 

But his mouth, lord, his mouth deserves a filthy mental image of its own. One Erik knows his cock will fancy.

 

Sleep and the intoxicated haze both evade him, and instantly he’s sitting up to get comfortable in the bed.

 

_Mein Gott_ , he thinks – why does Xavier always have to look like he’s just asking for it?

 

It seems like a daring, almost obscene thing to do – to just jerk off here, right now, while he’s there. But his cock is hardening for Xavier and if he can’t make use of his presence in the aforementioned ways, he can certainly get a kick out of it this way.

 

Though he doesn’t believe it’ll be as enjoyable and riveting without Xavier’s noises and naked skin and beady eyes, his imagination isn’t exactly insipid.

 

Erik pulls the covers down and feels that tingling sensation of anticipation return, along with the cold air in the room. Maybe it’s good Xavier wears all those layers.

 

He unbuttons his jeans as his zip shoots downward, freeing the swell of his arousal. He runs the length of his fingers down his clothed cock, eyes flitting towards Xavier. He’s turned his face to the side. Erik’s side.

 

Erik takes his cock out – he’s half-erect already. Xavier really is a wet dream. He spreads his legs and holds his cock by the base as he draws his jeans further down his hips while bracing the other hand behind him. He lets out a shallow breath and shuts his eyes.

 

He imagines Xavier down on his knees. The picture is wonderful. He’s down on his knees, wetting those cocksucking lips as he looks up at Erik. Yes, perfect.

 

Precome drips in profusion. Also perfect – it’s enough for Erik to ignore the idea of reaching for the lube.

 

Erik focuses on the kneeling Xavier again. He’s wearing an expression of submission, of complete servile importance under Erik’s command. Erik doesn’t want to downgrade – he’s a mutant, he’s powerful, they’re basically equals – but he looks exceptional on his knees looking like Erik’s cock will sate him.

 

Erik’s circumcised, with a faint scar apparent and sensitive when he runs a finger over it. He hisses, automatically, then wets his thumb and repeats, imagining that’s Xavier’s tongue. He moans then, with a dry throat and a rough voice but a fierce urge to find a verbal outlet for his utter lust.

 

Something about Xavier gives him enchanting, irrational joy. Something about the piteous faces he makes and the way he says the words he says, and the way he looks – and how his innocence, overall, has adverse effects on Erik. 

 

The more layers he wears, the more he wants to peel each one off with his teeth, with his hands, with his powers. The more he covers his skin, the more he wants to see it. It only heightens his urge. His accent is so clean and posh and refined, like he’s walked straight out of Buckingham’s Palace or the like. It only does further things to Erik – he imagines that same mouth chanting dirty encouragement, saucy expletives and then wrapping around Erik’s cock until he fills that very mouth with his seed—

 

“Erik?”

 

 

It’s like being caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Only the jar is his dick and – actually, no, it’s nothing like that.

 

“I – erm, sorry…” Though he’s not; not at all. “Did I wake you?”

 

Xavier is actually rising to his feet, looking down at Erik with an incredulous, twisted smile.

 

“Uh, _yes_. You were practically—you really are, aren’t you?” He steps forward and sneaks a glance at Erik’s open jeans; Erik’s hand stuffed inside them. His eyes go wide. “Erik you’re—”

 

“Jerking off? Evidently. Now either go back to sleep or hop on.”

 

Xavier lets out a small, airy laugh. Not smug, not cocky, but nervous.

 

“You can’t really think that’s… that’s appropriate to do while I’m… here…”

 

“I live here. I can do whatever I want.”

 

“But how could you just—”

 

“Look. Xavier. Either try and understand that _I am attracted to you_ and would very much like to continue jerking off to your face, if you don’t mind, or go lock yourself in the bathroom, stick your fingers in your ears and recite the value of Pi.”

 

Now Xavier looks sorrowed. His mouth slowly closes into a pout.

 

His voice is ridiculously sombre when he says, “I… just…”

 

Erik’s eyes dart to the hand around his cock, then to the watch around his wrist. It’s almost one.

 

Xavier slumps his shoulders and scratches haphazardly at his forehead before fingering the loose strands on his gloves.

 

“I’ll just leave then.”

 

The boy whirls around, still furiously twisting and tugging at the stray threads, and then walks to the door.

 

Erik’s just about to tell him to be careful or something of the sort, when he hears sniffles and sighs heavily.

 

“Fucking – _hell,_ Xavier. Just – just stay, okay. Stay.”

 

Angrily, he tucks away his cock in rough, unceremonious motions. So much so, that he can’t even control the metal that slides viciously against his thumb, emitting a pained yelp from his mouth.

 

But Xavier’s turned back around with impossibly wide, questioning eyes.

 

“Are you sure?”

 

“Yes, Xavier.”

 

“Are you mad at me?”

 

“ _No_ , Xavier.”

 

“It’s just that I live quite a distance from here and—”

 

“Dammit,” he chokes out, twisting his wrist in front of his face. “God, dammit.”

 

“What’s wrong?” Xavier asks as he instantly appears next to him.

 

“Nothing – just.” He looks at his watch again, tugging it off. “My watch has melted.”

 

He looks at the metallic strap, the gaps that have now irregularly adhered, and the contorted metal plating and crystal rim, now coiling in the shape of a dumbbell.

 

“How?”

 

Xavier holds the other end of the watch and furrows his brows.

 

“I don’t – know. Happens sometimes to the metal around me when I’m angry – or…”

 

“Oh, dear. I’m sorry. If you want Erik, I can help you contro—”

 

“It’s fine. I’ll just have to fix it myself.”

 

A pause. Then, “You can?”

 

“Yes. It would take me a long time, and it won’t be perfect again, but… I suppose.”

 

“Oh.” Xavier looks down at it intently, like he’s memorizing it.

 

He’s not too attached to the watch. It’s just an object, after all. But it was the metal, the sheen and the seamless design that melded all the components together in an elegant piece that Erik liked having, warming his wrist and reminding him of his capabilities. He’d revolve it around his wrist sometimes when he was nervous, the way people bit their nails or tapped their feet. He liked having it, and fixing it would be time consuming. Not having it would take some getting used to, seeing as he can’t afford another one.

 

“Well, I’m going to sleep now.” He yawns, trying to dispel the heavy dissatisfaction pooling at his groin, and gives his pillow a definitive pat before resting his head on it. It doesn’t occur to him where or how Xavier will sleep, but he doesn’t want to think about Xavier and his shiny eyes and pouty lips. He wants to sleep, try not to mull over the mess he is, and hope to hell that when he wakes up, Xavier’s gone.

 

:::

 

When he wakes up, Xavier’s gone.  

 

There’s the inevitable splitting headache, a pinch of tarnishing guilt, a distorted titanium watch –

                        

And no Xavier.

 

Erik sits up in his bed, running a hand over his face. There is a delicate (he wants to say insignificant, tenuous, anything, but he knows it’s unfitting) pang of sadness blooming in Erik’s chest from the acknowledgement of Xavier’s absence.

 

He doesn’t know why. Maybe if Xavier was still here, he wouldn’t have to feel so bad about last night. The whole ridiculous debacle returns to him in a maelstrom of unwanted memories, all starting from the moment he had thought he’d decline going to that stupid night club.

 

Now his head burns, as does his chest, but out of what – he doesn’t know.

 

With Xavier gone, Erik feels his loss the way one does when they chop off a chunk of their hair.

 

But he’s not going to mope over a fucking kid just because he’s pretty to look at and yet, look is exactly all he can do. Moping is for the average, nondescript race. Erik is good-looking. He’s lean and well-built. Strong in both physicality and mind. And then a possessor of formidable metallokinetic abilities; hence innately better a man than many. One Charles Xavier should give Erik no reason to find faults in himself, if there are any. Which there aren’t, so really it’s futile.

 

Erik has to take a moment to steel himself when he soars out of bed. He then lopes into the restroom, showers away the remnants of the previous day, and then changes into a t-shirt and dark jeans.

 

Erik’s workshop starts in an hour, and he hasn’t woken with the tolerance to stomach breakfast, so he struts out of his room in the hope of finding out if there’s any chance he’ll get a word out of Wilson of Zemo’s hideout. Erik fully expects Wade to go mute on him again, so he’s not too ambitious about this.

 

He looks down at his deformed watch one last time before heading out of his room in a hurried strut. The corridor is strangely redolent of burnt milk and heady washing liquid. His confused frown is already sitting on his face by the time he steps into the kitchen, and oh—

 

Xavier.

 

Janos, too, but – Xavier.

 

“Hullo, Erik. Did you sleep well?”

 

Erik blinks.

 

This isn’t exactly a normal thing to find in the kitchen.

 

Janos with his text book open, actual chemical equations pouring from his pen onto his workbook, a cheery Xavier sitting on the stool next to him holding a mug of tea, prompting him with questions, and then—

 

“I’ve, er, made tea?”

 

“Xavier—”

 

“For all four of you – there was just enough milk—”

 

“Xavier. What—”

 

“But it’s alright! I promise I’ll get more when I—”

 

“ _Xavier_! What the hell happened to the dishes?!”

 

The cluster of cutlery and china plates that had been loaded in the sink in a Tetris-fashion are now all gone. Erik can actually see the sink; the lime scale and streaks of drying water. He goes to look at the cabinets and finds every dish they own, bar a few mugs, is neatly stacked in visible positions that are actually locatable. It’s a sight.

 

“I just. I was going to pour myself a glass of water, but then I couldn’t exactly… find a way to… so I thought I’d just wash ‘em up,” he smiles good-naturedly, looking from Janos to Erik as though he expects to receive a pat on his back. Erik continues to glare at him. “I hope you don’t mind…”

 

Erik feels so, so stupid. He grimaces into his hands. God, if Xavier knew…

 

“Well, who do we have—um, Erik, the dishes?”

 

“It was…” he looks at Xavier, who seems to be showing Bobby his most gregarious smile. “Xavier did them.”

 

Bobby tilts his head, befuddled. His hair falls awkwardly around his long face.

 

“And you let him? After the whole… you know...?”

 

“I didn’t even know he was – I didn’t even feel the metal moving.”

 

“Ah,” Bobby laughs, reaching around Janos to flick his pen off the page. “Post-coital oblivion.”

 

If only.

 

Erik looks at Xavier, who looks back at him with a lost look of helplessness.

 

“We did no such thing. I mean – we didn’t have sex or anything. He was just asleep, that’s all.”

 

Bobby looks up at Xavier with a grin so devilish, so voracious, that Erik gets all of his bad feelings surging back towards him again.

 

Then Bobby turns to Erik and shakes his head, laughing maniacally with a grim hint of _oh, this is fucking hilarious._

 

Quelling the urge to smack Bobby with a ladle, he slams the door open and hauls Xavier outside with him, into the hallway and up against the wall. He looks at him for a while. Takes him in. The freckles that dot his nose, the speckles of pretty blue in his eyes, and lets his skin feel the breeze of a hot peppermint-tea fragrance coming from his breath. He wants to reprimand him, for everything. But his face is so sincere and young that Erik has to look away and unhand him. Taking a step back, he watches Xavier sigh in relief, then clear his throat to speak.

 

“I should really head off now and make a phone call home. It’s my little sister’s birthday today – she doesn’t quite know her own, so we celebrate ours on the same day. But I really ought to go now before she’s off to school. Take care of yourself, Erik. I’ll see you around.”

 

Then Xavier smiles a smile that reaches his eyes just perfectly, before turning around to amble through the hall.

 

Over his thudding heart, he hears Janos yell,

 

“DON’T FORGET OUR STUDY DATE ON TUESDAY, XAVIER!”

 

Then Bobby, smug, saying,

 

“What a doll. What a fucking doll.”

 

And Azazel’s confused, muttered;

 

“Tea? Since when did we have teabags?”

 


	3. Chapter 3

“FASTER! Come on, you tailed tomato, do it faster!”

 

“The Dean’s about to come.”

 

“The Dean’s about to come! Fuck, just – Janos – slow him down. Blow him!”

 

Bobby, still rummaging through the filing cabinets, snickers. Janos passes Erik a frightened look before gesticulating in front of the opened window and sending a cocoon of breeze through the gap, down along the walkway, and to collide with the impending Dean. It slows him down a lot, because now the budget of papers in his hands have all dispersed around him on the ground.

 

“Right,” Azazel says, with red hands furiously typing away at the keyboard and his tail navigating the mouse and scrollbar. It gets the work done wondrously fast. “We’re in.”

 

“Thank fuck. Okay. Run face recognitions with every male student who does a course part of the Faculty of Sciences. It has to be someone with great scientific abilities, especially if we’re considering him a part of HYDRA.”

 

“He has to be,” Bobby agrees, dropping the files back into their alphabetised order and shutting the cabinet to come and stand behind Erik. “If he’s affiliated with Johann Shmidt, he must be. Skull would want an accomplice at an institute like this for fabrication and of course, scholarship money or grants.”

 

“Hurry up guys, Dean’s comb over just rebelled against him; he looks pissed.”

 

Janos leans up on the balls of his feet and watches the ostensibly balding man tuck the last of his papers under his armpit.

 

“Keep the wind going Quested. Azazel, narrow the search to male science students with supported finance.”

 

“Got it,” Azazel mutters, complying with nimble fingers. “Four hundred students found.”

 

“Fuck. Okay, now run the recognition test.”

 

The air is suddenly thick and adrenalin goes coursing through him to augment the shoots of thrill, excitement, anxiety. Erik’s tapping his foot intermittently and holding his breath as he watches the green digits buffer into a rectangular bar; a test of his patience.

 

Thirty percent, then fifty, eighty—

 

“He’s talking to Professor Monroe now,” Janos informs, dropping his wind-procuring hands to his sides.

 

“Eight matches found.” Azazel sits back in the seat, cracking his knuckles as he lets Erik lean forward to inspect all of the names. “Note them down so we can leave.”

 

“On it,” mumbles Bobby over the sound of his scribbling pencil. “I’m rooting for Essex. He seems like a dick.”

 

“If he’s in alliance with Shmidt – let’s just say dick is a nice way to put it.”

 

Bobby snorts. “Who said there’s a bad way of putting dick?” Then the Brazilian’s smile transforms into a demeaning leer. “But you wouldn’t know, would you Erik?”

 

Erik’s squinted eyes widen as he turns to look at Bobby, locking his gaze like he’s expecting him to continue; disambiguate.

 

But Erik knows exactly what he’s referring to. Specifically, whom.

 

And then Janos also has to be reminded of him too, He Who Erik Must Stop Thinking About.

 

“Could you guys hurry up? I have a study date with Carlos.”

 

“Charles, his name is _Charles_ , Janos,” Bobby corrects him, mercifully looking away from Erik. With every mention of his name, Erik had experienced a hot burst of energy rippling through him, so strong, that maybe if Bobby had his eyes on him, he’d be able to sense it with his ability.

 

Which is of course, completely unlikely, and yet is just as possible as Erik having no defence against Bobby’s taunting, victorious grin. He’s too familiar with its shape now, having been passed it far too much lately.

 

Lately, when everything’s been Charles _this_ , Charles _that_ , Charles who’s so smart at this subject and makes everyone tea and laughs too loudly and smiles too brightly. Charles coming in two minutes to tutor Janos, Charles leaving a Tupperware box filled with oven-hot shortbread biscuits, Charles who’s always punctual with his myriad of books and red lips like he’s been sucking on strawberries all day. Charles, Charles, Charles.

 

Erik has made it his deliberate duty to leave the moment Charles arrives. And he’s always prompt, rapping his knuckles on the door precisely at five, signifying the time for Erik to flee. Flee to avoid every amiable smile, every temptation to lick his lips for him, every sound of him laughing cheerily when Janos would finally be able to pronounce ‘Spectrometry’ without embarrassing himself.

 

He’s been strained by his routine presence, kept constantly on edge when he’s around, like he expects in any minute for Charles to turn around and explode with friendliness.

 

Because while he’s one big walking billboard of ‘YOU CAN’T TOUCH ME’, he’s also that young boy who had spent the first few moments of his seventeenth birthday helping him get home. Him. Erik, who had not only ruthlessly deflowered him but had taken advantage of him, only to later on reject his friendship and make further passes at him. But even in Erik something had snapped when he’d seen the empty sink.

 

What on earth about Erik could make him so determined to be his friend? And since when did he stop becoming Xavier and start becoming _Charles_?

 

“Oh,” Bobby muses, pointing at the side of the screen. “Speak of the devil.” Azazel turns. “Not you, Az.”

 

Erik leaps out of his reverie to follow Bobby’s finger on the name _Xavier, Charles Francis_ on the list of—

 

“Science students with aided finance? Go on his profile Az.”

 

The screen changes in a  blinking flash, revealing the double columned format of the student profile page. After arduous moments of waiting, the page fully loads on [an image of Charles](http://img10.imageshack.us/img10/6928/13864560637988d910cfo.jpg). Erik looks down at the text beneath his name but then his eyes dart back to the image of Charles.

 

It’s just a lazy smile on a boyish face, Erik tells himself. And then there’s interpretation number two – that he’s quite simply blessed with beguiling beauty. Erik had thought he was over the boy’s face.

 

“Xavier-Marko Trust Fund. The kid’s a _trust_ fund brat.”

 

“… Post-Grad? Why does it say Post-Grad student? This database must be wrong or—”

 

“No,” Erik interrupts, leaning closer to the monitor. “It says Harvard alumni. ”

 

But as it seems, nobody hears him over the sound of Janos’s desperate squeal,

 

“He’s gone! The Dean’s not there, he must be on his way!”

 

“You _fuck_! I told you to stay on the lookout,” Erik grinds out, standing from his knees and gathering all of the files to put them back in place.

 

Erik doesn’t bother heading back with them once they’ve teleported out. It had been a close sweep, with the Dean imminent in the elevator Erik could sense making its way up, and with Azazel still not able to log out of the system. But their escape had been perceptible to time, even though Azazel’s brief panic had cost them his concentration and transported them to the female restroom across the hallway.

 

Azazel joins him to the bar, where they eagerly ruminate over the names sketched across Bobby’s napkin. After deciphering the curlicues of his handwriting, they drum their fingers and empty a few glasses as they narrow the list down to seven, then six.

 

Then seven again.

 

It’s effective, keeping his mind pinned to something he’s so militantly consumed in. Just enough to keep his thoughts from drifting to the question of whether or not the kitchen will be redolent of a peppermint presence and bakery once Charles has been and gone.

 

He’d overheard Charles enthusing about a new brownie recipe before he’d left yesterday.

 

“Broke car maniac at five o’clock.”

 

Erik’s hardly subtle as he turns to look over his shoulder at the burly man entering the bar. He’s wearing a green polo shirt with its logo obscured by a huge damp splatter.

 

When he slides into the unoccupied stool beside Erik, he inhales loudly.

 

“No, Bronson, I’m still not interested in working for you.”

 

“Wasn’t gonna ask,” he pans, eyebrow curving up. “But seeing as you’re here, I was wondering if you could tell me about that Xavier kid.”

 

Erik turns to Azazel, but he’s furiously writing over the napkin with a fierce determination in his bowed face, his tail curled around the legs of the stool with the arrowed point wagging steadily.

 

Bronson is looking at him expectantly as he leans against the islands. He hasn’t ordered a drink yet.

 

“He tutors Janos,” Erik shrugs. “He’s very low key, doesn’t talk much.”

 

“Have you ever heard of the _name_ Xavier, before, Lehnsherr?”

 

“Not really. Why, d’you want it behind yours?”

 

John sneers at him, adjusting the baseball cap on his head. But then something flickers over his eyes, causing all of Erik’s bad feelings to arise once again.

 

“Oh, I could if I wanted. I could have that _kid_ any way I wanted.”

 

Erik doesn’t know why he replies saying,

 

“Yeah? Well I’d like to see you try.”

 

Because that’s when the bad feelings become worse. Or at least, the moment Bronson smirks and leaves his seat while Azazel tugs his sleeve, poking him with end of his tail.

 

“What a fucker. I mean what kind of a company name is _Bunk Car Resort_?”

 

“Erik…”

 

“What?!”

 

“Bunk Car Resort is a code. It’s an anagram.”

 

Erik blinks at him stupidly before prompting him on.

 

“For.”

 

He dares a glance at the napkin, and finds underneath the name, written in decisive capital letters,

 

_BARON STRUCKER_

 

:::

 

John Bronson, alias Baron Strucker, youngest alleged member of HYDRA and accomplice of Baron Zemo. Also not very creative with names, and also in close proximity to a short figure standing cornered against the brick wall of the bar.

 

Erik watches the man stumble to the side from the metal in his belt and the jackknife in his pocket, the very one he’s about to reach for.

 

Erik matches him in height but not in strength. On marching towards him he’s tackled to the ground, knife in hand, but Erik musters up enough focus to yank the knife into his own grip and roll the bastard over onto his back. The knife pauses in air above his head and Erik readies the weapon to land straight through the gap between his horror-widened eyes. There, the traitorous scientist who’s been exploiting the bursary funds and rampaging around in the hooded HYDRA vest, promoting the work he’s been doing with Skull—

 

“STOP! Erik, please, stop.”

 

The body pinned beneath his stops struggling against his own, essentially going completely inert. Erik turns his head to the familiar voice and mirrors his stillness.

 

“Please, don’t hurt him Erik.”

 

Charles’s white sneakers slide against the sidewalk as he etches closer. When he’s under the streetlamp, Erik notices the the fingers positioned at his temple, the bag slung over his shoulder, and the look of pained terror crossing his features.

 

“Charles,” he can barely believe the ease with which his name pours from his lips. “Leave. You shouldn’t be here. Go home.”

 

“I can help, Erik,” he says, imploring with each batted lid. Erik realises – the way he has his moral epiphanies in dark alley ways when straddling limp bodies and dithering casually at the brink of their death – that maybe Bronson had been provoked by Erik. Erik provoked, alright. You weren’t exactly going to hear Erik bark in your face and then nonchalantly resume your life the way it was, unchanged. Erik has an effect that goes beyond magnetic control and dashing good looks.

 

Reminded of those attributes and many more, he replies, “No, Charles. This doesn’t need your involvement. I have it under control.” _It has nothing to do with you._ Though perhaps, Erik thinks guiltily, it could’ve had nothing to do with the boy if Erik hadn’t snapped at him. Charles Xavier induces guilt; that’s what he does.

 

“Please? Just – just watch, Erik.”

 

Charles takes a few more steps closer until Erik can see him fully in the light. There’s an eager playfulness branding blue eyes, displacing that earlier fear. Erik reluctantly moves back – a little bit lost in that infectious glaze.

 

Erik watches, in a daze, as Bronson breathes and blinks and shudders into life. Charles comes to nudge Erik off him – the knife going with him – and then places his fingers back at his temple.

 

“Watch.”

 

His voice is a raspy whisper, half frightened and half impish with excitement, and Erik just continues to watch.

 

Bronson climbs to his feet with unfocused eyes, craning his neck to look up at the trees around him.

 

“What is he going to—”

 

“Shh.”

 

For the decades to come, Erik will remind himself of this moment to scare himself: Bronson calmly clambering his limbs around the tree, arms and legs folding in a tentacle-like fashion, and then staying mounted atop the trunk at least eight feet above the ground.

 

“He called me a tree-hugger in class today.”

 

“Oh. Well I’ll be fucked.” But then Erik laughs, looking up at how goddamn _ridiculous_ the man looks, already clad in strange attire and entirely comfortable as he hangs onto the bark, shaded by leaves and branches. He laughs because there’s no blood in this victory, because there are endorphins as opposed to adrenaline, and because bloody Baron Strucker is hugging a tree wearing flannels that will most likely tear an unforgiving hole.

 

Then a pair of arms are thrown around his neck and he’s bumping into the wall behind him with the force, the feeling; he’s unable to unwind them and push the boy off – god, how he hates to be pushed out of his accord – and he’s unable to speak out in protest.

 

He just stands, arms still at his sides, feeling the heaving chest of the boy against his own. Charles is up on the front of his sneakers, heels up high, just so their heads meet at level. Erik wonders why this is happening. Wonders when he should take action to make sure this happens again, or better yet, doesn’t end.

 

“I knew you’d come for me,” Charles is whispering into his ear. He’s so close. It’s peppermint all round. Brownies – he most definitely has made brownies. Maybe there’ll be some when he gets home. Then—

 

Oh.

 

“As much as you _insist_ that we shouldn’t be friends… I had a feeling you’d keep to your promise.”

 

_Oh._

 

“Char—”

 

“No, there’s no need to be modest.”

 

The boy’s chest moves up and down when he laughs. Erik feels it against his own and shivers.

 

“But you did all the work…” Erik glances up at the man still sheltered by the tree’s greenery.

 

“I couldn’t have done anything without you. I owe you thanks.” Erik’s aware of how easily Charles has placed his head against Erik’s shoulder. Erik’s heart is so, very, very, fast. “Besides – it doesn’t matter, who did what. You came for me. That means a lot.”

 

Erik shuts his eyes and prays, prays this isn’t sarcasm. Really, a misunderstood mind reader must be a rare gem.

 

Closing his arms around him, breathing in a soothing cadence and thanking him for rescuing him, is a _rare gem._

 

How _ever_ did Erik learn how to deceive without meaning to? It seems feasible though, doesn’t it? That Erik had somehow sensed this pretty little thing was endangered and so made a runner across the street to take his oppressor down. Erik finds he doesn’t want to clear the misty air. The smile on this boy is too intoxicating.

 

Erik tugs him into view, placing both of his hands on his shoulders. He had meant to speak – not to say _I barely cared about your safety when I realised that the Nazi I’ve been stressing to find is heading straight for you, because of yours truly no less,_ but he had meant to tell Charles something, ask him if he was unhurt to keep along with the ruse, and couldn’t with just the single glance into his eyes.

 

Charles’s face transforms into a smile before his eyes. And it’s like a pleasure for his sights – to see something so brilliant construct before him, and to know that it’s for him. _Because_ of him, yes, but that’s a thought that Erik doesn’t want to dwell on again.

 

“I – um…” Charles clears his throat. He looks shy all of a sudden – Erik feels like he’s missed something by blinking – but then he learns that Charles is about to do something, and is already shy about it. Erik’s aware of his unmoving gawk and irregular heartbeat. Charles’s lips are soft when he pecks his cheek.

 

Just a small, silent, brush of red lips against the taut skin of his jaw. Never before has a kiss so innocuous made his head spin, or his knees weak, or his mouth dry. This small gesture has done the whole lot, all while keeping his chest tight and knotted with—

 

Ah, there it is. Guilt.

 

The kissed part of his cheek seems to burn. It feels like that section of skin no longer belongs to him – like it’s been claimed by Charles. Charles Xavier really is a fucking fairy, and hell if Erik doesn’t admit that he’s slightly spellbound.

 

Now it’s Erik’s turn to clear his throat. He peers up at the tree as Charles steps to the side, nervously adjusting the bag on his back.

 

“So… how long will he be like this for? And what happens when he’s out of it?”

 

“An hour, maybe? I’ve partly convinced him he’s at home, up there, but eventually he’ll drop down and regain himself. Though he won’t remember what happened.”

 

Erik’s a little breathless saying, “You can do that?”

 

Charles continues to silently look up at the tree.

 

“Can you make him do worse?”

 

“What do you have in mind?”

 

He’ll take raw, real revenge later, he inwardly thinks, when Charles isn’t there and Azazel or the others are. (Erik’s helpless; he’s going to trust Charles’s word and believe that Bronson won’t know Erik attacked him back when he was a consciously thinking human.)

 

Erik shrugs. “Make him hump it.”

 

Charles’s eyes and mouth both widen, his face going large, but then he does comply. This time Erik keeps his eyes on Charles. His glove-laden hand has reaches his head, two fingers curling in an arch as he drains his attention on the figure in the tree. He’s chuckling with sweet abandon and Erik just watches him with eyes that drink and can’t seem to find a better place to settle. His laughter turns into the call of his name, then another, until Erik turns to look up at the tree. As requested, Bronson is viciously rutting against it.

 

“I think we should leave.”

 

“Good idea.”

 

They saunter out of the dark alley way and into the lightened streets that stretch out in front of the bar. There’s a hum of mellow music flowing out and the constant clink of glass against glass. Erik only has to look through the window to see that Azazel has gone. Erik stuffs his hands in his pockets and sighs.

 

Charles is still hovering behind him.

 

“I suppose I’ll see you, then.”

 

“Wait!” Erik spins around to say to the boy’s back, and quickly reaches forward for his jumper sleeve. “Um…” he runs his free hand through his hair. “What did he want from you? You didn’t tell me.”

 

“Oh,” Charles begins, then stops to spare a glance at the hold Erik still maintains on his sleeve. Erik grunts an apology and drops his hand. “Money.”

 

Nothing less than what Erik can expect. He nods his head and takes a step closer to the boy.

 

“Listen. Charles. You need to tell me everything. Everything he said to you. Can you do that?”

 

Charles swallows, looking down at his sneakers in thought before nodding his head.

 

“He… he was asking me about my Trust Fund,” he says, remorse evident in his voice. “Not in a very nice way.”

 

“So he’s after your money.”

 

“My family money, yes. It’s not like I own it all. It’s only going to my University fees. The rest is being saved for my sister.”

 

“Did you tell him that?”

 

“No. He was about to blackmail me, ask me for ten grand, but then you came.” There’s a frail hint of gratefulness in his voice, which he might as well be using to say _you’re my hero._

 

His eyes say it too. His eyes say a lot of things, though.

 

“Where were you coming from?”

 

“Chemistry with Janos.”

 

“Oh. Right. Yes. But.” He turns to look at the alley way. “You live that way. Why were you going down there?”

 

Charles smiles fondly and moves his bag higher up his shoulder.

 

“To tutor.”

 

At some point Erik’s body has decided it’s going to walk alongside Charles, which also happens to be the supreme opposite of the path that leads to his own dorm.

 

“I don’t get paid very much but it’s nice. They’re great kids. Jean’s telekinetic and Scott’s eyes energize plasma blasts. Their foster parents were particular about having somebody like _them_ tutor them for their studies. They said the kids are comfortable with me because I can understand what it feels like to be different in the same, different way they are. Imagine how wonderful it would be if they could see just how many people there are like them. How… _defined_ they’d feel.”

 

Charles looks wistfully at the moon in the sky that gets no bigger and no smaller as they walk on.

 

“Not all mutants make good company. Some are capable of terrible things.” He thinks of Shaw, Zola, Essex... himself.

 

“Which is why it can be really hard finding friends. Of course, I would know that.”

 

Erik continues to watch Charles. A telepath, walking with him. Erik thinks about what it must feel to have that ability. How it must be, to know the way people’s words deceive the thoughts in their mind. He thinks it aloud, shouting it with his inner voice, until Charles flinches in mid-air.

 

He turns to look at Erik and smiles, then rubs his elbow and shrugs.

 

“Lonely, I guess. You get—” Charles hesitates, breath held, but then exhales in frustration. “No, forget it.”

 

Erik stays quiet after that. He can tell Charles fears he’s boring him. He’s not.

 

“Do you think I’ll make friends on the football team?”

 

“You’re on the football team?”

 

“Not yet. I’m in the final round of try-outs. It’s between me and one other guy for the last place on the team. I’ll find out if I’m on next week.”

 

Erik purses his lips in uncertainty. “Well… have they been nice to you?”

 

Charles’s face drops a little. His feet start to drag across the ground. “I haven’t met them all. Just the ones who were trying out. They weren’t exactly…” his voice falters as he swallows. “Once they hid my clothes when I was playing skins.”

 

“Oh.” An inexplicable protectiveness spikes through his skin. He’s glad Charles hasn’t mentioned who, where they live, when they’re deep asleep so Erik can delight them with a show of his mutation and just how much havoc it can cause. “But you beat them all, didn’t you? If you’re in the last round, and there are just two of you…”

 

Charles grins sheepishly. “Yeah.”

 

Erik grins too. Charles’s grin is pretty on his face. Erik knows his grin probably looks malicious. 

 

They’re off campus now, but not too far for Erik not to know how he’s heading home. What he doesn’t know is why the hell he’s walking Charles to wherever he’s going. He hasn’t even asked to be escorted, just picked up his feet and went. He wonders if Charles has done something. He decides against that. If Charles had asked, he’d still gone. Fairy and all that.

 

“Well I hope the rest of them are kind. Though this whole business with the Trust Fund is worrying me. I don’t even understand how people are finding out about it. I haven’t told anyone.”

 

Guilt, old friend.

 

With crystal clarity he can imagine Bobby spilling the news to every person he knows, and their mother. Outstanding, considering they had just been in the office two hours ago.

 

Their silence continues until they’re walking down a winding footpath bracketed by high blades of grass and sunflowers. Charles is looking up at the house before them and then begins to run, bag bobbing up and down, until he reaches the front door.

 

“A bit isolated for a foster home, don’t you think?” he says once he’s caught up with Charles.

 

“Very. But it’s for their safety. Scott’s power can be detrimental, even though he’s seven and means no harm. And Jean also prefers the seclusion.” Charles leans in close to Erik and lowers his voice to a whisper. “I think she might be manifesting early signs of telepathy. We haven’t discussed it yet, but she’s been speaking in my mind unknowingly and cries about how she can hear voices. I remember when I was her age, and how I had read up a book on schizophrenia, curious as to why I exhibited the symptoms. I think I should tell her today, before she gives herself the same fright. Don’t you?”

 

Erik blinks. Adoration curls in his gut.

 

“I think you know best.”

 

Charles must have summoned them telepathically because the door swings open without a knock and out pour two young children to orbit Charles and merrily chant his name. Charles greets them back, equally as jovial, but before he’s tugged inside he stops Erik from walking away.

 

“Jean, Scott – I want you to meet Erik.” After an awe-filled pause, “he’s like us.”

 

Scott pushes his monstrously large aviator goggles up his face and Jean claps a hand over her mouth.

 

Erik looks at Charles, who’s beaming at him with blinding hope and lacing his head with successions of _please, please, please._

 

His first impulse is to run, run before he gets the urge to wipe the trail of snot coming from Jean’s nose with the back of his sleeve, run before he feels the need to adjust Scott’s glasses so he doesn’t look like a bumble bee, and sprint into the grass before he’s desperate, absolutely desperate, to gather Charles in his arms and straighten his floppy hair and tell him just how magical he is.

 

But his words are never enough.

 

So he feels up his back pockets for some metal. There’s not much on him today, excluding that fucker’s knife—

 

Well, that can work.

 

He remembers how his mother had loved this trick when he was younger, and now a small smirk colours his face as he levitates the knife behind his back. Drifting into view, he rapidly moulds it into a child-friendly blob, before shaping it into a small floating caterpillar. He watches the silver gleam in Charles’s blue eyes as the caterpillar transforms into a butterfly with symmetrical wings that sprout from its body and flutter in synch as it flies a circle around Jean’s head.

 

She looks absolutely _floored_ , whirling on the spot in circles to follow the flight of the butterfly as it circumambulates her anti-clockwise, then clockwise, until she becomes dizzy enough to dramatically fall into Charles’s bracing arms. The butterfly parks itself on Jean’s red hair and she squeals with excitement as she plucks it with her hand and admires it.

 

Erik doesn’t feel like he’s even in his own body. It’s almost as if the younger, happier Erik has been awoken. The one that shuddered at the thought of killing, and could only think that a weapon’s good use would come in the shape of a toy. The one that adored having an audience – one like this, one with cheery smiles and instincts to applaud – and would showcase all the crafty things he could do with his ability. Erik hadn’t even known the little boy still lives inside him, flourishes, and appreciates the smiles he receives. Especially one – his mother’s.

 

Here, when Erik looks up, he sees a smile that competes.

 

_Thank you, Erik. The children love it._

 

“Oh please! Mr Ell-rik will you come inside for some pretzels?” Jean asks, still cradling the butterfly in a cupped hand.

 

Erik looks at Charles, hoping he’ll pick up on the _I can’t I’m sorry I can’t_ showering his mind, but Charles is giving Erik his own pleading face. Scott, too, with the way his mouth is curved in a beseeching smile.

 

“Another day. I’m sorry. Have fun learning.”

 

The way that Charles’s face drops is a tad more devastating than the children’s expressions. They believe him, of course. Charles doesn’t.

 

“Come on kids, in we go,” he hears Charles say as he turns around to walk down the footpath, restored as his older self again.  

 


	4. Chapter 4

 

Some nights, Erik wakes up fighting a cold sweat.

 

Panting, he throws an arm over his eyes, despite of how dark it already is both inside and beyond their sheath.

 

His anger is unavoidable. The years of preserving it and cultivating it so it produces an ominous point he can utilise as a weapon have served him well when he trespasses into opulent properties or unhinges the piping that skirts the brick walls to curl them around a man’s waist. His rage is fast and inexorable and ever-present to be compartmented, referred to for the inevitable endeavours of tomorrow.

 

It’s cemented so well in his rampant mind that it’s now a congealed part of him. It is an inseparable part of Erik. Erik mediates between rage and distress.

 

Where on the way did he find calm?

 

But it’s sitting there like an overstaying, uninvited, and entirely welcome guest lodged in his mind.

 

In the gracious form of a certain Charles Xavier.  

 

An inkling to douse himself with thoughts of Charles takes its toll. On the hunch that yes, maybe he _is_ starting to value what Charles thinks of him, he brings himself to imagine what Charles would say if he knew of Erik’s special adventures. Would he too deem it necessary crime? Would he suddenly cease his amicable smiles and pleasantries, _disgusted_ by Erik?

 

Or would he ask him, the same thing he imagines his mother asking: _is this what makes you happy?_

Does the pretty-faced gentle-voiced boy even care for Erik’s happiness? And after what Erik’s done—

 

No. He can’t.

 

Feeling slightly peeved by his own musings, he rolls over onto his back. His chest feels constricted. His body is hot and aching. His muscles are clenched tight, housing thrumming energy that awaits exertion. Waits.

 

Blood rushes to pool down south, and Erik tightens his fist to prevent his hand from roaming down to follow that surge and heighten it. He won’t.  

 

Some days his thoughts of Charles are so unforgivingly vivid, electric, sharp enough to superimpose every other memorable imagery that occupies his mind. The profound, the poignant – the centre of Erik’s mind is a gaping cave that echoes with Charles, conceals thoughts associated with Charles, and ponders over every effect he has on him:

 

Scared, guilty, jealous, infatuated, impatient, so unhinged with _need_ —

 

Now he’s back on his chest, praying to the deities, mouth pressed deeply into the pillow.

 

With the twist of his wrist he could act on his desire. The mere jump of his heart at his release could undo the knots winding in his stomach.

 

But Erik doesn’t know the stature of Charles’s telepathic range, and even the thought of potentially ruining the boy’s sleep makes Erik feel reluctant. Reluctant enough to falter, so he can give Charles the small mercy of undisturbed sleep while he allows himself to writhe in the anguish of his own straining arousal.

 

Slumping down completely, he’s forced to wonder with a tense breath:

 

If this is the effect Charles Xavier has, what effect would his _love_ have?

 

:::

 

Charles isn’t a bad cook, Erik thinks, as he scoffs down another one of his chocolate-drizzled profiteroles.

 

More often than not he comes storming home with a migraine from all the metal wielding of the day, for purposes that vary from academia to manic enmity, and finds his senses immersed in the detail of a dulcet fragrance filling the front entrance.

 

Without missing a beat, he’d stalk to the kitchen in acknowledgment of his single presence, and then scan the counters for the subtle pull of aluminium foil.

 

Today, Erik’s standing with his waist pressed against the sink and his chin doused in full cream. He’ll never compliment Charles on his cooking, though. He’s not supposed to be good at cooking as well.

 

He can’t be good at everything. He can’t be—

 

No. He isn’t.

 

:::

 

Charles must have made it onto the team.

 

Not that Erik wants to ask, nor does he want to congratulate.

 

He passes by the soccer pitch during his morning jog and allows himself a thoughtful ogle at the kitted team. His pulse is only soaring because of his jog, not because of the boy determinedly dribbling the ball around a red cone.

 

The team kit is blue and white. The shirt is steel blue with white socks and shorts, and inwardly, _hopelessly_ , Erik notices the blue is similar to the boy’s eyes. He tries to keep his thoughts faint and tenuous, not to distract the way he’s doing his drills, and tears his eyes away from the scene to continue his morning jog.

 

It only takes the sharp sound of a whistle to get his attention back onto the field. Charles has crouched on the ground to do his shoe laces, his head raised to meet the coach’s eye as he gives stern instructions.

 

A tall blonde boy offers his hand for Charles to take, helping him up and smiling, then swinging an arm around his shoulders companionably as they walk together.

 

Charles is raving on about something passionately, small hands bursting through the air space in front of them. The blonde next to him ducks his head and laughs, patting his shoulder.

 

Maybe Charles has made friends on the team. Maybe even something more than a friend.

 

An indescribable, unutterable emotion courses through him. His morning jog quickly evolves into a furious march. He decides not to address the hot, thrumming feeling that keeps him charged and fuelled, unknowing of what it could be, doing this to his temper.

 

:::

 

Belatedly, Erik thinks – jealousy.

 

That’s what it is.

 

Jealousy.

 

:::

 

It’s too casual, the way it happens.

 

One evening Janos and Azazel are fighting over a remote control, the next morning they’re leaving through the same bedroom door.

 

Surely Erik has missed something.

 

And it’s easy to miss crucial details of the connection kindling between two of his flatmates when he’s always consumed with other matters; other people.

 

Their – now, _infamous_ – remote battle had just been a background occurrence when it was going on. At what point was one meant to acknowledge the banal presence of others while Charles Xavier was still present, rooting around in his bag?

 

“I can’t – find – my –” he’d been patting himself up, feeling over the counters and bending to check the ground. “I’m _sure_ I left it inside my book.”

 

Meanwhile, half of the few furniture they had, occupying the spaces in their lounge, was whirling and shivering with the insistent gusts of wind and the impact of too-quick teleportation from one side of the sofa to the other. Erik couldn’t care enough to silence their racket by drawing the remote to himself, because he was currently trying to impress Charles.

 

Red-cheeked and huffing, Charles had placed each hand on his hips in defeat, ready to retreat home, when the fountain pen floated into his sight. Grinning colourfully, he’d relaxed his shoulders in a softly expelled sigh as he’d reached for the pen. But Erik had been unwilling to oblige as he’d pulled it back towards himself before Charles could take it. Chuckling, Charles had come around the stool to follow the pen’s flight, to no avail, and yet still persistent as he jumped to grab it. Erik was smiling to the point of pain.

 

For, he had been pouncing for the hovering piece of stationary like a playful kitten, occasionally throwing Erik an exasperated look in the hope that Erik would surrender, when really, the sight of Charles only veered him to prolong the chase. Inwardly, Erik had been wondering, waiting, for when _Charles_ would surrender. When _he_ would place his fingers at his temple and manipulate Erik. But that moment never came. Charles continued to frolic to reach for a pen held too high for him.

 

Breathlessly, he had laughed Erik’s name.

 

“I’m getting _late_ for Jean and Scott!”

 

And despite of that, Charles hadn’t halted Erik from moving to simply seize the pen. Nor had he moved his hair away from his forehead, where it eclipsed his wide blue eyes.

 

So Erik did it for him. He flicked the pen so it swept the locks of his thick hair back behind his ear. Charles had been completely still, panting lightly as he’d let Erik perch the pen into his hair and brush it away, before stilling it behind his ear and leaving it there. Now, Erik could fully see the circular clarity of Charles’s eyes. But to describe their prettiness furthermore, would be like being forced to articulate all of the complex ways his heart yearns.

 

Hence why he’d just said, “You need to get a hair cut.”

 

Nodding slowly, Charles had taken the pen from out of his hair and wrapped it in his palm, observing it closely.

 

“Fascinating,” he’d hissed, turning it around, smiling all the while. “Did you seek my pen through your magnetism?”

 

“Yeah,” he shrugged, nonchalant where really, he was beaming at the merest thought of being _fascinating._ He’d never been called that, not even indirectly.

 

It must have been around this point that Azazel and Janos had taken their scuffle elsewhere, because it had suddenly become ever so quiet.

 

The silence framed a cage around them, and trapped inside, Erik couldn’t breathe. It wasn’t even the recycled air – it was the pure _lack_ of it. It was difficult to tell, in that moment, if Erik had stopped breathing, or if he was made unable to. Could Charles do that?

 

Charles had, however, turned away. Broken out of the bubble – or perhaps, expanded it? Charles could do it all. Charles could rebuild the cage as to trap Erik inside it once more.

 

Charles strolled towards his bag to place his belongings back inside. The Tupperware box today had been an assortment of what Charles had morosely described as “last night’s leftovers, sorry,” as though he was contractually ordained to bring every variation of chocolate-based bakery in cookbook existence, and still be apologetic over the fact that the cookies had gone cold. Erik had bitten down on the helpless way his stomach had leaped at the sight of Charles’s achingly sweet self-deprecation. If his pride could be punctured, if his heart spoke a language he knew, he’d have torn through the distance between them and engulfed himself within the honeyed flames of the boy’s electrifying aura.

 

Charles’s eyes had flicked up to meet Erik’s – looking complacent, as opposed to swept away by overzealous admiration underlined with heavy denial – and Erik had allowed himself to relax. For good measure, he’d diverted his mind to a distantly unrelated place. He very aggressively started to think about trains. And then Mexico.

 

After grinning down at the plastic box now devoid of even a crumb of evidence, he’d adjusted it into his bag – which he carefully swung over his shoulder as he begun to speak.

 

“Jean and Scott were asking about you. They said they’d like to meet you again.”

 

Erik nodded curtly. His hand cupped the nape of his neck as he looked at the sink, the cupboards, a speckle of dirt on the stool; anywhere but at Charles’s sincere face.

 

“Would you be—”

 

“I’m busy.”

 

“Oh. Too bad, then. I don’t know if you know, but I did make it onto the football team,” Charles happily informed him, despite of how affronted he must have been by Erik’s brusque interruption.

 

Erik contemplated his response. Should he say _yes_ , that he sees him train every morning and has ceased his own exercise in favour of openly staring? Or lie and deny his knowledge, over something so mundane – simply because he’d much rather seem less invested in Charles than really he is.

 

“That’s really good.”

 

“I know you’re busy, but… we have a match next Wednesday. I’d really like it if you could come. If not for _me_ …” Charles blushed, fidgeting with the sleeves of his jumper. “Then for the team. For the University. Janos and Azazel and Bobby said they’re going to come. They’re actually very… _excited_ about coming. So… would you?”

 

Erik brushed a hand over his face. His Wednesday was occupied; he had agreed on going on a Mutant Protest March. He’d been looking forward to it, too. Hours of passionate, angry trooping up and down the campus was more thrilling than he’d thought. But he wanted to go to the match. _Not_ for the team. _Not_ for the University.

 

“I’ll think about it.”

 

Even though he’d already made his decision.

 

:::

 

Two hours after the call, Erik is still sitting on the cold tiled ground.

 

His face is still wet and his body is still curled in on itself, compact, leaning helplessly against the kitchen wall. He’s shivering.

 

This is how he’s found.

 

:::

 

Getting the call hadn’t been a surprise. In fact, today of all days, he had been fully expecting it.

 

He had been excited for it, too.

 

For reasons inexplicable, he had bathed and changed into smart clothes. He had combed his hair to a slick side-part, just the way she liked it. It transformed him. The transformation would always be necessary.

 

Some years, essential. Today, vital.

 

He’d scour the cupboards for his palm-sized _Zemirot_ book and recite the hymns in his bedroom, away from the boys, doting over the lost sounds that would sound like foreign tastes on his acclimatised tongue, every chanted word a sacred shibboleth, every sentence reminiscent of that forgotten young boy that would be called upon today.

 

It _would_ be called upon. And it was.   

 

With his Yiddish revisited, hymn book in hand to read over the phone when the inevitable request would come, and the entire dormitory empty for his proud voice to fill, he had sat on the kitchen islands and waited by the phone.

 

The first thing he had checked was the Caller ID. His heart had leapt up in unadulterated joy.

 

The next thing he did had been at the wake of his mindless happiness.

 

“MAMA!”

 

There was silence on the other line.

 

“… Hello?”

 

“M-ma…”

 

“No, um. Er, Mr Lehnsherr?”

 

As calm as he could force himself to be, he had propped the hymn book down on the counter. Reverently, his fingers had grazed over the text of his mother’s favourite.

 

He switched hands so the phone was cradled in the other. It was clammier, so he changed again. He sat himself down on the stool.

 

“Yes. Erik Lehnsherr speaking.”

 

“Mr Lehnsherr, I’m afraid I have unfortunate news for you. Am I correct to understand that you are the son of Ms Edie Lehnsherr?”

 

Erik didn’t have it in himself to snap over the pronunciation of his mother’s name.

 

“Yes.”

 

“I’m deeply sorry to inform you that we couldn’t save your mother.”

 

He’d shut his eyes, then. Swallowed. Swallowed _nothing_ ; his throat was completely barren.

 

“W-When?”

 

“At nine-thirty in the morning, sir. Sir if—”

 

He placed the phone down.

He listened to the sound of the wall clock.

He sunk to his knees.

 

:::

 

“Erik?”

 

The knock that follows matches the voice in its gentleness.

 

Erik listens to the silence that stretches by holding his breath.

 

Then white sneakers trudge over to the lounge.

Erik lifts his head from his knees to see the boy standing behind the sofa, spinning around with a lost look on his face until his eyes catch onto the ground.

 

“ _Oh_ , Erik…”

 

He bristles. He drops his head back atop his knees, facing away from Charles. He shuts his eyes again and forcefully clamps his front teeth down on his lip.

 

He can only hear the sound of movement, the rustling of clothes and the soft thud of something dropping, until he smells peppermint right next to his face. Stubbornly, he squeezes his eyes and bites down harder on his bottom lip.   

 

He doesn’t know what to expect. He doesn’t know what he’ll say. He doesn’t want him here.

 

He doesn’t want him to leave.

 

He doesn’t want him to stop stroking his hair.

 

Erik stops shivering. The hand ebbs and he hears Charles shifting closer. He can feel the brush of a warm hand against his own. The warmer hand resumes the gentle stroking of his hair. Fingertips graze his burning scalp. Peppermint breaths fan his tears dry.

 

“Erik.”

 

Charles completely withdraws his hand, instead placing it on Erik’s knee. He sniffles. Charles responds by squeezing his knee, his thumb marking smooth circles.

 

Finally, he lifts his head.  

 

Immediately, Charles pulls his jumper sleeve up around his hand and brings it to Erik’s cheeks. He flinches. But when Charles does tentatively smooth the soft material over his damp cheek, it doesn’t itch or chafe. It feels pleasant. Charles smiles and gently wipes the other cheek. Erik only gives him more to wipe.

 

He looks up at the blue eyes inches away from his.

 

Erik’s lips are chapped and bruised. He parts them to speak, but only a frail noise lets out. Charles instantly scoots closer and buries both hands in his hair, one smoothing the hair back down to its parting and the other descending to cup his cheek. His thumb strokes away each tear.

 

He finally says, “Charles.”

 

“Yes, Erik. Tell me,” Charles whispers, hands pausing.

 

“Why are you here.”

 

Charles blinks. His hands drop from around his head and fall into his lap. He looks wounded.

 

“To… help J-Janos… b-but I felt you—”

 

“No, I mean,” Erik swallows, letting his head fall back onto his knees. “Why are you _here._ Doing _this._ I’m… I’m an _awful_ person.”

 

Charles is silent.

 

Then, “Erik…”

 

“No, Charles.” He lifts his head to look at him, wondering why his face is emulating fierce concern; worry. _Why_. “My mother’s dead. Nobody loves me. And I deserve it all, Charles. I deserve it.”

 

“Don’t say that!” Charles gasps, hands clutching onto Erik’s arm like a safety ledge. “Erik, listen to me. You do _not_ deserve to lose a family member. Nothing you could’ve done is—”

 

“You have no _idea_ , Charles!” he retorts, hugging his knees closer to his chin. “I’m the last person _you_ should be around. You should leave me alone and let me suffer alone because I deserve nothing less.”

 

After the longest silence, filled dimly with the ticking wall clock and the anticipatory thudding of his ruined heart, he hears a gentle voice.

 

“Nobody should have to go through this pain alone.”

 

Erik swallows.

 

“Even terrible people like me?”

 

“Even terr— _Erik_!”

 

He feels a warm hand swat his shoulder and then, out of the strangest compassion, he laughs. He has to turn his head away, but he laughs, sniffling into his arm. The mirth of Charles’s laugh is more mellifluous. But then – but then what about him _isn’t._

 

He looks up at Charles to see if he’s heard, if he knows what Erik’s just thought about. He’s not blushing. He takes it Charles hasn’t been in his mind.   

 

If only he had. It would’ve been worth it just to see him flushing red from the flattery.

 

“Charles?”

 

“Hmm.”

 

He’s gone back to stroking his hair. Lazy, languid motions this time, that are resonant of quiescent ocean water bathing rocks on the shore.

 

The movements have a somnolent effect, but he keeps his mind alive so he can tell Charles,

 

“My mother would’ve loved you, you know.”

 

The hand stops. Erik continues to stare up at Charles, who looks earnest with surprise. His red rosebud mouth has parted.

 

“You really think so?”

 

“Yes. I’m sure she envisioned me to… end up with someone like you.” Erik dredges up a sigh, continuing after a difficult pause. This confession – it’s all too profound, but Erik aches for the outlet. So he says it. “She’d have wanted me to be with a person like you.”

 

“How can you be… so sure?”

 

“Because you’re _perfect_. Because—”

 

Erik blinks his eyes shut and _squeezes._

 

This time, he can’t bury his head away, because Charles has grabbed hold of his face, maintaining his hold, despite of Erik’s struggle to turn away. Turn away and silently disappear.

 

“Erik… open your eyes, please. Look at me.”

 

His next, shaky lungful of air is scented with sweet peppermint. Charles must be close – very close…

 

“Please?”

 

Close enough to place a kiss on Erik’s temple.

 

“Charles, I…”

 

The ticking of the clock, the droplets of water that perpetually pour from the sink tap, the rhythm of his heart – all become unbearably loud.

 

“Charles, I’ve been treating you so horribly. I’m so sorry. My mother would – would’ve _hated_ me if she knew how unkind I’ve been to you. She wouldn’t have… she wouldn’t have wanted to _live_ if she knew her son is such a—”

 

“Erik, don’t say that,” Charles loudly snaps, giving Erik an effusive shake. “Your mother would forgive you. Like I have.”

 

Erik fights away from his touch, clambering closer to the wall he’s leaning against. His hands are now angry fists.

 

“ _Why_? Why have you forgiven me?” He mutters into his skin, allowing the solid flesh of his tensed arm to muffle his voice. “It’d be so much easier if you hadn’t.”

 

“What good would it do to me? Besides, Erik – this has nothing to _do_ with me.”

 

“After all I’ve done? You think I’m not being _punished_ for everything I’ve done?”

 

“I don’t… I don’t know, Erik.”

 

Staggering to his knees, he drags his body closer to Charles and grabs hold of his soft, round hand and folds two fingers so only the middle and index are pointed. He guides the hand to the boy’s temple, digging them in emphatically. Charles falls completely pliant, letting him. Erik feels appalled by the control.

 

“Look inside my mind, Charles. Look. Tell me I’m not a horrible bastard who deserves all of this grief.”

 

Only after a moment’s hesitance does Charles speak, his voice even with deliberate, overt care.

 

“You do not deserve grief. I can’t tell you that what you’ve done is forgivable. Of course it’s terrible and you’ve made me feel terrible, but. You deserve a second chance at being a better man. Which is why you need forgiveness, not grief.”

 

Erik sits back on his legs. His hands falter from their hold as his shoulder twitches in a mock-laugh.

 

“You’re already more of a man than I am. You know that?”

 

Charles’s bottom lip curls into his mouth, lodged under a row of teeth. He ducks his head, ears going red.

 

“I wish I had treated you better, Charles. I’m so sorry.”

 

With so much of Erik turned inside out, so many of his tears shed, and a frightening amount of his deepest regrets streaming up to the surface for Charles to see—

 

He feels like he’s all his. Charles can now rip him apart if he wants; when he realises that it’s exactly what Erik should incur. He’s now just a shell in his palm, small and hardened in a way that can still be broken, still be deemed fallible.

 

If Charles wants.

If Charles wants, he can seize his unguarded mind.

If Charles wants, he can claim dominance and seek justice, _vengeance_.

If Charles wants, he can inflict on Erik what he so clearly deserves.

 

Instead, he feels a pounding hindrance judder through his mind, ordering in a shrill shout:  _No, ERIK! Never!_

 

Charles’s eyes are shut. His breathing is uneven and rapid, like each inhalation of air is a challenge to acquire.

 

“I – I should… go.”

 

On trembling legs, the telepath stands, looking as alarmed as his voice had been as it had rung into the inner ear of Erik’s mind. Hands covered in fingerless gloves slowly ball up into round, white fists as he calmly intones,

 

“Please don’t think about me in that way. I would never take advantage of your pain.”

 

Sitting back on his haunches with shoulders slumped helplessly, habitually since his youth, he meets Charles’s gaze evenly. He slouches even more when he sees the hurt that his blue eyes cannot conceal.  

 

“I’ll go see if Jean and Scott are up for an early start.”

 

Erik nods, even though Charles has wheeled on the spot to walk away, his sneakers facing the door. He can’t tremor a cry to make him stop. And what can he say? Evidently, his thoughts and expectations have bruised Charles, in every way he has come to realise _he doesn’t want to._

 

He remains seated, idle on the ground, as he glumly notes the metal from Charles’s clothes depart from his range, before he feels the prickling presence of a larger block of mingled elements.

 

His hand splays outward and a box revolves towards him by its contents. It’s light blue and bordered with a thin white ribbon.

 

Without thinking, he rises to his feet, joined by the hovering box, until he steels himself long enough to realise that Charles hasn’t forgotten the box, he’s left it here deliberately. Charles doesn’t forget.

 

But then if it is indeed meant for him, Charles surely would have told him so, instead of simply leaving it.

 

It all makes sense when Erik lifts the top and sees what’s inside.

 

A titanium watch. Not unlike his own.

In fact – Erik swallows – exactly identical to his own.

 

Weakly he wonders if Charles knows it’s his birthday today.

 

Probably not.

 

:::

 

Edie Lehnsherr would have loved Charles Xavier. It’s a fact.

 

She would’ve loved him for his altruism, his youthful charisma, his gentle, forgiving nature, his cooking, his liveliness, his infectious optimism, those wonderful eyes—

 

Because those are the reasons Erik Lehnsherr does. 


	5. Chapter 5

He finds a rose and plucks it out of its bush. A sniff later, it’s dropped back into the heap of leaves on the ground.

 

It’s not enough.

 

He writes a letter. It has too many adjectives, the excess still not able to express what he wishes. He rips it thrice before he scrunches it into a defeated ball and bats it away. He lets the trash can dip to scoop it up.

 

It’s still not enough.

 

He settles for coffee. At least it can’t be shredded in front of his eyes. At least it can’t give him paper cuts or thorn pricks.

 

:::

 

Typically, at a time like this in his life, his first destination would be his mother. He’d be down the phone to her in an instant, mumbling about how he doesn’t know how to undo his selfish mistakes and how he really, really doesn’t know how he’s supposed to act upon the feelings swimming precariously close to his heart.  

 

But as he walks past the crowd of riled protestors that Wednesday, he’s left with his own ways – ways that have previously proved to be disastrous, if not hurtful.  The pads of his fingers burn against the Styrofoam cup as he determinedly turns his back to the horde behind him. He could’ve been amongst them, raising his voice to match their timbre, demonstrating the fire of their youth.

 

Instead, he’s standing up on the balls of his feet as he tries to soak up any glance of Charles he can get, heart uncontrollably anxious.

 

He’s torn between obtaining Charles’s averted attention and continuing to watch the boy doing pre-game kick-ups, switching the ball from foot to foot with practised ease.

 

Erik sighs as he realises that he can no longer tug Charles around by his clothes to get what he wants like he could just a month ago; he can’t even call him to give him a cup of coffee.

 

The coffee goes cold.

 

::: 

 

After cursing and pacing and pouring the coffee down to some cats, he finds Azazel. It’s inherent that his request garners a disbelieving glance from the teleporter.

 

“Do you like him?”

 

“Just get the coffee.”

 

“But do you?”

 

“With sugar.”

 

“Tell me and I’ll get it.”

 

“No.”

 

Then Azazel’s gone, and with just that one little word, Erik will realise how much damage he’ll do.

Though, in hindsight, he should’ve known from the mischievous smirk that spreads widely over his face before he vanishes.

 

:::

 

The next time he has liquid heat burning the tips of his fingers, Charles is watching Erik walk down the hill to the bleachers. Charles kicks a ball out of his way and meets him halfway with squared shoulders and delight dancing in his eyes.

 

“You came,” Charles smiles as he says, his gaze flitting down at the cup in Erik’s hands questioningly.

 

Erik looks down at it as though he’s only now realised it’s there, something searing and burning his hand and yet secondary to Charles’s presence.

 

“For you,” he says evenly, presenting the coffee to the air in between them. “I thought you might need it. For today.”

 

Charles takes it instantly, though he’s blinking up at Erik with fondness. Of course, things _have_ shifted between them. It’ll go unspoken until Erik will muster the courage to voice what he feels, because there’s no way the same thing is happening to Charles.

 

He can’t possibly be feeling the thrill, the buzz of being around the other, feel the desire to lock every shape of his smile into memory, have a strange urge to crush him against his body and hold unfalteringly tight. It’s only Erik, surely, that feels all of those things as they stand facing each other next to the soccer pitch.

 

“Thank you,” Charles says, peering down at the slithering steam that exits the cup. “This is – very kind of you.”

 

And somehow Erik can appreciate just how surprised Charles is without being offended.

 

“Are you staying to watch the match?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Great. Thank you for coming.”

 

“I’d like to talk to you.”

 

Charles pauses from where he’s lifting the cup to his mouth, about to take a sip he’ll wince at, and lets his hand descend. It’s another facet of Charles’s surprise he can appreciate, to his horror, considering the last time he’d said something similar, it was insinuating a crude appeal to take Charles to bed.

 

“You do? Well, I’ll probably be busy after the game…”

 

Eager, he asks, “Tomorrow?”

 

“Tomorrow – might be a problem. Tuesday?”

 

“Tuesday’s—” a long wait, but, “—fine.”

 

“What do you need to talk about.”

 

This time he does take a sip, and it does visibly burn his tongue.

 

“I want to talk about you.”

 

Then he almost instinctively looks down at his wrist, where his new watch sits. Charles looks too, his expression softening in just the ways Erik could ask for.

 

“Of course,” he says, right over the sound of somebody calling his name from behind. “I’m _coming_ ,” he yells back, eyes briefly meeting with those of the tall blonde Erik had seen around Charles too much.

 

Then he feels it all: the rise of his ineffable emotions, crowding at his throat, fogging in his mind, churning powerfully through his stomach. He wants nobody else but the two of them, to not be interrupted, to have Charles irrevocably. But despite of it all, he knows there’ll be a better, more fitting time for the discussion of what’s happening to Erik, and before he can put a name to it himself.

 

When Charles doesn’t immediately make a move to retreat and follow the lean boy – who, has probably never made Charles sob the way Erik has, and can clearly catch a football in the nape of his neck, too – Erik begins to expect something. A sudden hug, maybe; he even prepares himself for a kiss to his cheek, or his temple – but he can’t prepare himself to feel like an undeserving fool when Charles simply jogs away, only murmuring, “Thanks again.”

 

:::

 

Erik has allegedly missed the humorous part of the conversation, because when he finds his roommates, they’re trying and failing to stifle their laughter.

 

Without speculating, he sits down on the bench – deliberately wedging himself between Azazel and Janos, ignoring the Spaniard’s scowl – and quietly assesses his conversation with Charles in his head, turning it over and over until there’s nothing more left to deduce. Should he have been less blunt? What will Charles be expecting? Will he remember that Erik wants to see him on Tuesday?

 

“Lehnsherr,” Bobby mutters, nudging him with an elbow to his ribs. “Did you give him the coffee?”

 

“ _Yes_ ,” Erik grunts, skimming a hand over his flank. “Why?”

 

Through giddy laughter, Azazel nods towards the soccer pitch as he tells him, “Give it twenty minutes.”

 

“Give _what_ twenty minutes?” he retorts, head snapping from each of the faces wearing inexplicably elated grins. Looking down at his watch, he reads the time, notes no significance, and looks back up towards Azazel. “What?”

 

“Did you fix your watch?”

 

“ _No_ – I, no. I didn’t. It’s new. Now what’s happening in—”

 

“But it’s exactly the same,” Janos observes, seizing Erik’s wrist to look at the watch searchingly. “How did you afford it? I thought you were broke.”

 

“I’m not broke. And I… I didn’t buy this watch.” He pulls his arm to his chest, as though poorly trying to cover up the heart that thrums impatiently at the thought of who _did_.

 

“Someone bought you a watch?” Bobby snorts, his hands juggling a lick of flame with casual efficiency. The boy sitting next to him blanches and scoots away with one terrified look at the dancing fire.

 

“Yes.”

 

“Gonna tell us who?”

 

“No.”

 

“So _Xavier_ bought you the watch?”

 

Erik rolls his eyes and slumps his shoulders forward, fingering the watch wistfully. He nods his head.

 

“He bought me the watch,” he says, looking down at his feet, arms across his thighs. Then he sighs and – it feels so _good_ to say, “I really like him. I like Charles.”

 

When he laughs, curtly, and turns to look at his friends’ waning smiles, it doesn’t stop him from continuing, “You don’t believe me do you? I didn’t think I was capable of it either. But _mein gott,_ I’m absolutely absurdly in love with him.”

 

There’s noise from the pitch now, and the students seated at the benches rise from their seats as the teams walk onto the green. Erik swallows and allows himself to seek Charles out, who is about as easy as iron to become drawn to. He’s the smallest of his team, no doubt the youngest of both, and Erik loves him.

 

“God, I _love_ him,” he says once more, rather to himself than to anyone else. He curls a fist in his hair and feels a sharp blow to his shoulder. Wincing, he turns around to see each of his friends baring varied expressions of aghast shock. It’s Azazel, though, whose eyebrows are shooting out of his forehead.

 

“You told me you asked him,” Janos hisses to Azazel, who furiously begins to nod his head.

 

“I _did_ , and he said _no_. Didn’t you?”

 

Erik sits up straight and furrows his brows, agitated.

 

“What did I say no to?”

 

“I asked you if you _liked_ Charles and you said no. You did, I swear,” he raises his voice at the last part, over the sound of the commencing whistle. Erik looks from the grassy pitch, blinks at Charles who stands ready as a striker for the home team, before looking up at Azazel.

 

“I said no, as in – no, I won’t answer your question. Of course I like Charles, I’ve just told you I _love_ him.”

 

“Oh. _Sorry_ , then. It was Bobby’s idea.”

 

Bobby huffs and turns his head to the side. But Erik ignores him in favour of leaning ominously close to Janos and pinpointing him with a demanding glare, under which he nervously tucks a thick strand of his hair out of his eyes.

 

“What the _devil_ have you been up to…”

 

:::

 

Erik remembers his first time. His body had instantly reacted to it like it was venom, and as it crept through his veins, he felt himself losing power on his own autonomy. His vision clouded and doubled and his chest heaved. After that, it was _never again_.

 

And very soon, the handsome heap of Ecstasy in Charles’s coffee will be having a similar, if not worse effect.

 

“What _possessed_ you idiots – what kind of _sick mind_ do you have to have to be able to do something so horrible—”

 

“We didn’t know you liked him!”

 

“Whether I like him or not; it doesn’t matter. This is _wrong_ , you don’t do this to people!”

 

“Remember when you did it to me?” says Bobby, clapping his hands together to extinguish his flame. He turns to look at Erik expectantly, mouth twisted in a pitying smile. “How else do you think I got the idea?”

 

Erik sits back on the bench, tongue thick in his throat, and clamps his fingers in a fist that dig his nails into his skin. The sound of cheer and chants becomes unbearable, the crowds a close suffocation, so he stands to leave. He squeezes past Bobby, avoiding his gaze. He didn’t think he’d be reminded of what an awful person he is so soon in the day. 

 

Then a chorus of gasps break out amongst the crowds, some seated, some standing, and some now shooting out of their seats to stand.

 

Erik doesn’t want to see. He whirls to look back at the bench, instead, though he can’t decide what’s worse – the fact that Janos has cupped a hand over his mouth, or the fact that Bobby is looking resolutely away.

 

He gulps and turns, finding Charles immediately on the pitch, as he sits rocking on his knees with hands buried in his hair, pulling sharply. He lets out a scream, and soon, every person in a metre’s radius does the same.

 

:::

 

He finds another rose and carefully, after creating makeshift scissors from a plate of drain metal, snips off every sharp, thorny point. This rose smells beautiful, but this one in particular had been the one with all the thorns.

 

He writes another letter. This time, he doesn’t do a check for the abundance of his adjectives. If they’re there, he’s meant them. He means every word. He carefully prints it onto soft tissue paper, blunt and fluffy, with no harm to anybody’s hands except Erik’s, which are now stained with droplets of ink.

 

When he sets off down the alley way behind the bar, he sees the tree. He recalls that night with a bittersweet ache to his heart, and the weeks before, when he had first kissed Charles under the moon.

 

Blinking his eyes shut, he walks on with only the power of his mind’s metallic affinity to guide him. If he opens his eyes, he’ll probably be able to tell exactly where they had been stood that night, when Erik had first pressed his lips against Charles’s, when he had first tasted his mouth, when he had first seen Charles flushed with misconstrued happiness as he’d thrown his arms around Erik and hugged him.

 

He very nearly trips over a log, but it doesn’t matter, because he’s going to see Charles again and repent and atone, until there’s nothing left of his voice.

 

:::

 

Charles opens the door on the third knock.

He swings the door back to close it, leaving only the tiniest gap so he can deadpan,

 

“I’ve been suspended. I hope you’re happy.”

 

Then the door shuts completely.

 

Erik rests his head on the door, planting both palms on either side. He can feel the metal that will help him open the door. He acknowledges it, familiarises himself with its movements, and latches on.

 

He can’t get the picture of Charles out of his head, his sullen blue eyes underlined with unrest, his jumper hanging off of him frumpily – he can’t just _leave._ And he can’t just burst in, either.

 

“Charles? Charles I’m sorry and I love you and I want to talk to you.”

 

Feet shift and slide against a creaky floorboard. Erik gasps and stumbles forward when the door opens without his knowing. He straightens himself in the landing, but doesn’t meet Charles’s eyes. When it’s far too silent, Charles finally speaks.

 

“I’m going to…”

 

Erik looks up to see Charles wave fingers by his forehead. He nods his consent.

 

And although he’s felt Charles plunder through his mind before, it’s never been quite like _this,_ where Erik can openly reciprocate by supplying Charles with whatever information he wants him to absorb. He feels himself being guided through his own mind, the memories – some more luminous than others, and Charles shudders at the sheer amount of himself he can see, a praiseworthy montage of every moment they’ve spent together, sacred and treasured. He presents his _disgust_ towards the events of the match, the jealousy when Charles is around someone else, the remorse piling higher day by day apropos of his selfish actions, and he shows him love; there’s his attraction to metal, the love he insists he feels towards himself so at least _somebody_ does, the abandoned motherly love he is no longer the recipient of, and Charles, who supersedes it all by mountainous proportions by being the object of his greatest, most intense affections, by making him see beyond himself, by making him see beauty while being able to finally, genuinely _appreciate_ it.

 

The occupant of his mind, out in the hallway of his dorm, steers himself away on shaky limbs. Erik brushes a tear out of his eye, his clearer vision allowing him to see the way Charles braces himself on the wall.

 

“Are you alright?” he whispers, grabbing Charles steady by the waist. He pulls free, nodding as he walks into his bedroom. Erik’s stomach jumps at the memory of it. He looks around for Charles, ignoring the organised mess of clothes decorating the room. There’s a suitcase too, but Erik doesn’t inquire. Charles is sitting on the only spot on the floor that isn’t inhabited. He looks up towards the ceiling with his back against the wall as he speaks, words seemingly absent of thought.

 

“Erik. You don’t love me.”

 

Sighing, Erik sits down next to him. He meets his dreamy gaze without flinching.

 

“I do. I do love you. Didn’t you see?”

 

“I did.”

 

“Then?”

 

“Why don’t you tell me something, Erik,” he begins, rolling his head to the side, where Erik stares intently at him, waiting for an explanation. “Your mother loved you, didn’t she?”

 

Erik nods his head, looking down at his watch. Charles places a comforting hand over his shoulder, remembering. Erik leans into the contact as best as he can without tipping over.

 

“She always did, didn’t she? Since you were born. No matter what you did. Am I right? Isn’t that what mother’s do?”

 

Erik looks at Charles, hissing, “Yes.”

 

“Then why is it whenever I look into my mother’s mind, I see nothing: nothing like the love you shared with your mother, nothing like the love you feel for me. Why is that? Does she not love me?”

 

Chest tight, he reaches for the hand on his shoulder, the very hand slipping away to hide in brown, curly hair. Erik calls his name, suddenly aware of the tears in both their eyes when he takes a deep breath. Charles turns onto his other side.

 

“Aren’t they supposed to _always_ love you…” he whispers, continuing. “No matter if you’re different. If… if you’re completely unlike the _neighbours’_ kids. If you like to read as opposed to play. If you look like the opposite sex and are attracted to the same sex—”

 

“Charles…”

 

“Shouldn’t they always accept you? Why am _I_ never good enough?”

 

Erik doesn’t say a word after that. He can only move on instinct, which is to be as close to Charles as is possible. He curls his arms around Charles’s back, pulling his torso closer to his, and waits until Charles finally relaxes. Erik sighs in relief when he succeeds to envelop Charles completely in his arms. His hands lock around his waist and pull tight, slowly, until the fabric of his blue jumper rustles and Charles falls into Erik’s lap. Again, on instinct – he hides a secretive kiss in the crook of Charles’s neck. He turns to look down at Erik and sighs, dousing Erik with a peppermint odour.

Erik smiles and thinks,

 

_I love you. I love you, Charles. I really do love you. I’d like to kiss you._

 

Charles’s brows crease in astonishment. He pouts his lips, but doesn’t move them closer to Erik’s.

 

“Why? My mouth is full of… snot.”

 

_Don’t care._

 

It isn’t, when Erik kisses him. He lets go of him to hold his face gently, listening with rapt care for any noise of protest that could come from Charles, indicating he should stop. There’s no sound. Erik finds Charles’s hand and grips it tight as he brushes the tip of his nose against Charles’s, before diving up for a chaste, shy kiss. He lets Charles take over, holding him only by hand and head, and opens his mouth to him. He opens his mind, too, and this makes him shiver against Erik’s mouth. He changes the angle of his head so his mouth hovers wide-open above Erik’s, gasping air into it before settling down for a long, thorough kiss. When their mouths break apart, Erik has to wait a long time for his heart to calm down. But how can he, with the way Charles stares down at him? Looking at him, just him, with nobody else around, his irrevocably—

 

“I – uh – have to go. Pack.”

 

Before Erik can stop him and apologise for his obscurely possessive thoughts – which Charles has undoubtedly heard – he lifts himself off of Erik and stands to his feet. He takes a stack of folded clothes off the floor and goes behind Erik to deposit them into the suitcase. Erik’s breath turns slightly frantic when he sees Charles has emptied out everything to pack, and the semester still hasn’t even _ended_ yet…

 

“Where are you going?”

 

Erik stands and looks around at the numerous boxes, many of them labelled ‘THROW OUT’, and another suitcase on the ground brimming with books. The walls are empty, and the cupboards and drawers are gaping open without any contents.

 

He says again, “Where are you going?” – though this time he sounds desperate, on the brink of shouting. “Charles?”

 

“I’m going to England.”

 

“No you’re not,” he says, the first thing that comes out of his mouth, and moves to stand between Charles and the suitcase he’s filling. “Why would you—no, you’re not.” He moves forward and knowing Charles isn’t going to take it well, wraps him in a hug. “Why would you leave me? Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve only just fallen in love with you.”

 

“I told you,” a muffled voice comes from his neck, “I’ve been suspended. I used my mutation and caused harm. Two people became terribly sick and the match was called off. Didn’t you hear?”

 

“But it wasn’t your _fault_ ,” he argues, squeezing him for effect. “I can talk to them. I can tell them whose fault it was. I’ll bring Janos and Bobby and Az—”

 

“Forget it, Erik. You’re all mutants too. They’ll only be erratic about it. Now that they know I’m a strong telepath – well – they won’t believe a word about me.”

 

“How can you be so _calm_ about this?” And now Erik’s shouting; he pulls Charles away from his body to look at him, uncaring of how shrill his mental voice is, as it yells into Charles’s mind, urgent. “Those _bastards_ are responsible for what happened, not you! _They_ should be suspended!”

 

“They’re _your_ friends,” Charles mutters, looking away.

 

“Not anymore. I don’t want them in my life. I just want you, _just_ you—”

 

“I told you, I’m leaving. I’ve been accepted into Oxford.”

 

Erik gives him a shake. As though he refuses to understand the words, as though they’re made of utterly nonsensical gibberish, he shakes his head and squeezes his eyes shut. He can feel the metal around his wrist heat up.

 

“No – no, that’s not possible. You can’t just leave, you haven’t finished your year yet, You haven’t – haven’t even fully forgiven me, you don’t love me yet, we’re supposed to fall in love and—”

 

“Erik!” he bellows, fighting off his grip. Erik opens his eyes and concentrates on the serene blue of Charles’s eyes as his head begins to throb. “I’ve been accepted to join next semester. I did an interview with them _conveniently_ through video chat. They’ve accepted me. I’m going to start next month.” Erik whines and forces his hands into fists, which Charles immediately holds onto, holding them still. “I’ve always wanted to go there, you know. And they haven’t even asked me to do entrance exams. They said my undergraduate degree and my references are good enough. Isn’t that good, Erik? …Erik?”

 

He sees a flicker of hope in Charles’s eyes, pleading him. So Erik exhales. He pushes the heels of his hands into his eyes and takes a deep breath. He nods his head.

 

“That’s amazing. I’m so proud of you.”

 

Charles sighs and drops his shoulders. Erik isn’t getting any better at stopping his tears, he thinks, as he lets them spring free.

 

“How are you going so soon? Wasn't your suspension just… last week?”

 

Charles nods and turns to make room for himself on the bed. He sits down and fidgets with the cuffs of his jumper.

 

“I applied to Oxford back in September.”

 

“Because of me?” The throbbing in his head grows insistent.

 

“N-No…”

 

“You can say it.”

 

Charles blushes a coy red. “Well… what happened last week only confirmed why I should go. I can’t believe how dangerous I became. I could’ve killed someone. I didn’t even know drugs could do that to my telepathy.”

 

Erik can’t decide whether he’s grateful for the subject change or not.

 

“I’m sorry,” he quietly says, making space for himself next to Charles on the bed. “This is all my fault.”

 

“That I’m getting to go to the University of my dreams? I just needed an excuse.”

 

He leans forward, unsteadily, and kisses the shell of Charles’s ear. He whispers, “Will you miss me?” and watches Charles’s pupils dilate, covering the serene blue with an enticing circular black.

 

“I’ll miss the feeling of your mind, in love with me.”

 

“Does my love feel good?”

 

“It feels wonderful.”

 

“I could show you more of my love.”

 

And then he kisses him. Short, brief kisses – but it’s hard to stop, difficult to go further, with the way his gut coils with anticipation, waiting for Charles’s reply. He opens his eyes and sees Charles looking sternly at him, gesturing his approval with a decisive nod. Erik gasps, blinking, waiting for Charles to tell him he’s dreaming.

 

“Okay. Show me. Please do.”

 

:::

 

Charles clears the bed. He can hear a suitcase being shoved over – he helps ensure it lands carefully away from Charles’s feet and takes great pleasure in hearing Charles shout “Thank you!” – as he stands in the small bathroom.

 

He takes the time to steel himself, to take a deep breath and remind himself,

 

“You love him. You _love_ him.”

 

When he comes back into the bedroom, the bed is cleared, and Charles is staring wistfully at a tissue.

 

“Oh – must’ve dropped out.”

 

“It’s… lovely.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Yes. Thank you. And thank you for the rose.”

 

“Not a problem.”

 

“Sorry we can’t… go on a date, though. Sorry about that. But thank you for asking.”

 

“It’s okay.”

 

“If I wasn’t leaving, I’d—”

 

“Don’t,” he says, covering his ears with a hand to each. “Don’t tell me.”

 

_It’ll hurt, either way._

 

Charles nods and places the tissue on the bedside table, next to the rose. And then he begins to strip his clothes off.

 

Erik – blushing ridiculously – pulls on the hem of his own t-shirt nervously. He goes to sit down on the bed and stares at his hands, watching the way layers and layers of clothes drop onto the ground. Then there’s nothing more to add, and Charles is standing above him naked, and his mind chooses this moment to disregard everything it knows.

 

“Um. Just. Lay down on the bed. Please,” he breathes, running his eyes over the length of Charles’s body and leaving them on his face. He doesn’t look as nervous as Erik is – maybe it’s because Erik’s mind is rather enthusiastically singing,

 

_He’s so beautiful. So beautiful. I’m so lucky._

 

Quickly, as he watches Charles fold his body onto the bed and then crawl over to lay his body horizontally across the small bed, head resting on the pillow, he tells him, “You can go inside my mind. You can hear all of my thoughts, if you like.”

He wants him to read everything. Every lovely facet he discovers, every flattering thought that springs, every admiring emotion – Charles deserves to feel it all. He shifts on the bed to move closer to Charles, bracing himself above him. “Just please… don’t put me to sleep, or anything.”

 

Charles laughs, biting his lip. He looks up at Erik and nods, his mind snaking through Erik’s own and intertwining, lacing together in a reciprocal bond.

 

Slowly, he moves his mouth down onto Charles’s face. He kisses his temple. His beautiful mind. His beautiful ability. He kisses the other temple. His beautiful mind’s beautiful ability. He kisses his forehead. The part where his head meets his hair. Then on his scalp.

 

He works his way back down. His mouth brushes over the vein in his forehead. He feels the soft thrumming vibration under his lips. He kisses it. He kisses each brow, each closed eyelid, the freckles on his nose. He lifts his head to look at Charles, hoping for a view of his eyes from this close. One hand comes to cup his face, holding the warm weight in his palm and letting his thumb stroke over the subtle jut of his cheekbone. He kisses the freckle he finds. He remembers the last time Charles had laughed and keeps the memory alight as he dips his mouth and runs his tongue over his cheek. He kisses away the wetness he leaves, chasing the coy smile now blooming on his face. His eyes are open. Erik gazes into them. _Star_ gazing, he proudly thinks. Will the memory burn forever? Will he remember their enamouring colour, their effect, their charm, their wonder, their words and whispers and their hopes and tears? How can he not.

 

Charles has shyly cast his gaze downward. Erik smiles and nuzzles the crook of his neck. He kisses the line of his collarbones, teeth skittering gently enough to caress, before he moves his mouth to the freckles on his shoulder. Charles is _adorned_ with freckles. Erik wishes he had cared enough to tell him before, how lovely he looks showered in their dotting colour. He runs his fingers over the constellations. He feels their texture. First with his fingers, then with his lips. Then with the point of his tongue.

 

A smile tugs at Charles’s lips. Erik is drawn back to them. He lifts his hand and runs the bud of his thumb over the bottom lip. He replaces it with a fleeting kiss. He taps his index finger against the cupid’s bow of his mouth, tracing the shape curiously as his smile still holds. The lines that bracket his lips are lovely. His mouth is lovely. He says lovely things. He voices lovely thoughts. He smiles in lovely ways.

 

Erik feels crippled with the accumulating emotions. He has to shut his eyes and turn to the side. A weak sob lets out and he quiets himself by listening to the sound of Charles quietly breathing from where his head is pillowed by his chest. His small hands have found his hair to stroke. They card through the medium length, fingering the layers and soft strands until he lifts his head again.

 

“I _love_ you.”

 

“I know.”

 

Erik, unconvinced, kisses Charles’s hands again. He kisses his palm, the curving flesh beneath his thumb, over his knuckles, his wrist, then the soft skin on the back of his hand. He leaves his mouth there for a while. He whispers “I love you” and kisses up his arm. He whispers “I love you” and kisses his bicep, his flanks and all up his sides, whispers “I love you” and kisses the taut valley between his pectorals. He kisses down his stomach and becomes aware of Charles’s stiff breathing. He kisses him right where his breath had hitched – the vein that leads to his groin. He kisses the peachy hair that starts below his belly button. He kisses down the feathery trail, breathing in the smell of soap. Charles’s belly is tight but petal-soft and hot when he places his cheek over it. “I love you.”

 

His fingers dance over his hipbone. They travel down his shapely leg, skittering over his thigh. His thighs are strong and flex when Erik places his mouth over the tender skin of his inner thigh. His tongue flits out shyly for a taste to remember of Charles’s sensitive skin. He very gently sucks the skin, teeth careful not to leave a paining mark. Charles’s hands at his sides are still. His eyes have fallen shut and he looks blissful and haloed under the light.

 

Erik dares a short lick under his knee. He parts his legs further, hands gentle and slow, and then leaves lingering kisses down both his legs. Charles’s smile has returned, brightening especially as Erik’s mouth gets higher up the length of his leg. When Erik slowly lifts his hips and presses his tongue against his entrance, Charles flinches in shock.

 

_Please relax. I think you’ll love it, alright? Stop me if you don’t._

 

Charles does settle down. He places both hands on his stomach and stares hard at the ceiling. Erik soothingly strokes his knee until he sees the rise and fall of his chest has returned to normal. Then he finds his hips again, holding them delicately as he experimentally runs his tongue over the cleft of his arse. His skin is far too smooth and velvety to be real. He’s lovely.

 

He parts the flesh of his cheeks and darts his tongue to press over his entrance again. This time Charles makes a small noise of delight. His tongue plunges in and out, waiting for him to object. He doesn’t. The veins below his abdomen have divulged and his thigh muscles are clenched, but his face looks pleasured. He voices his content when Erik runs a long lick over his perineum. Then again, until he elicits a broken moan. His tongue finally plunges in and he drinks him, lapping in a repetitive rhythm that gains Charles’s incoherent hums and gasps of approval; every sound is a euphony of his pleasure.

 

Erik affectionately places his shaky hips back down onto the bed. He finds his soft hand to join their fingers together as he moves to focus his attention on Charles’s cock. It’s thick, thicker than Erik’s though not as long, and coloured beautiful by throbbing veins and damp streaks of precome.

Charles blushes at that. His skin goes rosy; some areas of his creamy white skin already glistening with Erik’s saliva are now turning a shiny pink that Erik wants to savour all over again. He could appreciate his beauty for days on end without tiring.

 

Charles is quick to wipe the glassy tear in his eye.

 

“Yes, Charles. You are beautiful.”

 

His voice is shaky and breaks, even though he speaks ardently – or perhaps because he speaks ardently.

 

“Beautiful,” Erik whispers to their interlaced hands, kissing the paler fingers, then descending his lips on his waistline. He drags his lips over the grooves of his abdomen, counting the freckles, then brings his free hand up to pass along the kissed areas. His knuckles swiftly and lazily run up and down his stomach, then down to the light bush of his pubic area. Charles’s breathing catches, his mouth parting out of the sudden rapture. Erik watches his face ripple from the sensation of his cock being licked. Erik’s inexperience prompts him to watch Charles carefully to see how he’ll like it, what he’ll like. He licks over the underside of his cock and watches Charles gasp heavily, swaying his hips upwards and moaning, sweetly calling Erik’s name, and then making a fist between their hands and trembling at the feel of lips at his balls.

 

Then he comes.

 

Erik feels the pressure in his hand and quickly seals the head of his cock with his mouth to catch every droplet. Charles has come off the pillow to stare guiltily down at Erik as he forces a gulp and laps at wherever he can manage. Charles falls back down. Erik messily comes off his cock and covers his damp mouth with a sweeping hand. Charles retracts his hand to place both over his face.

 

“Oh… dear, I’m so sorry.”

 

Erik frowns and swipes at his lips again before moving up Charles’s body. In passing, he kisses Charles’s dark nipples and sternum. He lovingly takes his hands away from his face.

 

“Don’t be sorry. I loved doing that for you. Every moment of it.” 

 

“That probably didn’t taste nice,” Charles breathes, nose scrunching upwards. He lets himself be pulled in Erik’s hug, his lids falling heavily over his eyes.

 

“It tastes of you. And I love you.”

 

Charles’s eyes open fully. Erik rubs his shoulders adoringly, giving him heat, even though it’s scorching in the bedroom.

 

“Are you upset that it’s me? Me who loves you? You wish it was someone else, a better person…”

 

“No, Erik,” he whispers, turning onto his back. “That’s ridiculous.”

 

“Do you think we’ll meet again?”

 

“Of course we will. Someday the world will need us.”

 

“I don’t know. I don’t think I ought to see you again until I deserve to.”

 

“Whatever do you mean?”

 

“I mean, we’ll meet again when I deserve to be in your company.”

 

“That’s also ridiculous. You’re not as bad as you think.”

 

“Why are you leaving so soon? Can’t you leave a little later? I want to be with you longer.”

 

“I’m going to Westchester first. To visit Raven, my sister.”

 

“When?”

 

“Tomorrow morning. I’m going by coach. Then I’ll be taking my flight from New York.”

 

“Tomorrow morning?!” he repeats, jerking up to look at Charles properly, to see if he’ll stop and smirk and tell him he’s joking. He doesn’t. Erik brushes a hand through his hair and sits up, until Charles pulls him backwards by his arm.

 

“Where are you going?”

 

“I’m not going anywhere,” he says sadly, falling back next to Charles. “But you are.”

 

Neither of them have the energy to say anything after that. When Charles silently dozes off, Erik does too.

 

:::

 

Then, tomorrow morning comes and he wakes up alone. Feeling up the bed either side of him, he confirms his suspicion.

 

When he sees Charles emerge from the bathroom, dressed and bathed and alert, he smiles at the mere sight of him. He’s scurrying around holding an assortment of his belongings and dumping them in various bags and suitcases. Erik’s smile subsides.

 

“Good morning, Erik,” Charles hoots, spinning around to look at the – now – completely empty room, barring the luggage. Erik swallows the lump in his throat and sits up. His throat is dry and raw. He can barely return the greeting.

 

_Don’t leave._

 

Charles huffs a sigh and sits on the bed. He grabs a pillow and begins to take the cover off.

 

_Don’t leave me in this horrid place. I don’t like anyone here._

 

Charles snorts and folds the pillow case neatly on his lap.

 

_First my mother, now you—_

 

“ _Erik_ ,” Charles interrupts, ducking his head. “Don’t be like this. Don’t make me feel bad.”

 

_Sorry._

 

“You can use the bathroom. I’ve left my bag, you can use the toothpaste and stuff.”

 

_Thank you._

 

“The coach leaves in an hour, so…”

 

Erik slips off the bed and rubs his knuckles into his eyes. When he tries for a look at Charles, to try and see his expression, whether he’s happy to leave or sad to leave him, he’s unable. Charles doesn’t lift his ducked head. So he quietly heads into the bathroom.

 

:::

 

“I’m going with you,” he says flatly, taking the bag from Charles both by muscle and mind. He lets both of the other suitcases hover behind him as he walks into the hallway and opens the door. Charles follows behind him, carrying his rucksack and looking at the room around him. Erik sighs. He finally knows – Charles is happy to be leaving, if his rueful smile is anything to tell by. Erik hopes that maybe he can feel happy for him, at some point, in some way – but he can’t. He has, after all, only _just_ fallen in love with him. It’s ending too soon. But Charles’s happiness will have to suffice. He turns around and continues to walk. They take the lift and the rest of their journey is wordless.

 

It’s not until they reach the coach station that he breaks down, the façade crumbling into nothingness.

 

“Oh, look! There’s my coach. Westchester, nine forty-five.”

 

“No, _no_ – no you can’t—no, don’t…”

 

Charles turns around and looks down, where Erik is on his knees – arms folding around Charles’s torso. When one tear falls, the rest that follow are inevitable.

 

“Erik, please…”

 

“Don’t leave me. I have nobody, Charles – don’t you know?”

 

His small hands cup Erik’s shoulders, not pushing him off, and yet itching to. His wristwatch begins to heat up again.

 

“ _Erik_.”

 

“Just say it once, tell me once, tell me that you—”

 

“I am happy to be leaving.”

 

Erik hiccups against his sweater, inhales the minty scent _one last time_. He nods and sniffles, promising himself to stop crying, but he can’t: Charles begins to stroke his hair into its parting.

 

“I have to go.”

 

“Then go.”

 

“You have to let go.”

 

“No.”

 

“Erik please, I’m getting late.”

 

“I don’t want you to go.”

 

Charles bends forward to plant a kiss on Erik’s temple. He presses his lips down hard, his mind slowly and soothingly drawing out of Erik’s, tendril by tendril, until there’s nothing left of him. His arms drop and he slouches forward, shutting his eyes. His limbs are flimsy and frail; his mind is still longing for that of Charles’s. He lets him go.

 

And he remains down on his knees, just like the first time they’d met.

 

:::

 

Soon he’s walking down a winding footpath bracketed by high blades of grass and sunflowers. He looks up at the foster house that stands large and proud in front of him and sighs. He walks on and knocks on the door.

 

It opens immediately – Jean and Scott, Erik remembers. mustn’t be expecting anyone. Surely, Charles had told them. An elderly woman stands between the ajar door, one eye looking through to Erik sceptically.

 

“Yes?”

 

“I’m Charles Xavier’s friend. I’m here to see Jean and Scott.”

 

“Oh! How lovely, do come in.”

 

The woman opens the door fully and lets Erik inside the house. It’s smaller on the inside, he notes, and much more colourful. The green’s and the blue’s hardly clash in this home, where the children dashing about wear the colours of their own natural skin with freedom – there’s fur growing out of hands, tail ripping out of trousers, scales decorating limbs – it’s evolution at it’s finest and freest. There’s nothing more perfect.

 

If only he had come in, that day. If only Charles was here, with him, to punctuate that _perfect._

 

“Mr Ell-rik?”

 

Erik wipes a hand over his damp cheeks and looks down at the redhead standing plastered by his side. He crouches down next to her and returns her smile. He taps his temple.

 

_Can you hear me?_

_Yes! You can do this too?_

_Not like you and Charles can. I can only control metal._

_I remember! Of course! Scott thinks you’re cool!_

_Really? Where is he?_

_He’s coming. He’s sad about Charles._

_I am too. Do you have anyone else to tutor you?_

_Not yet. But we have pretzels!_

_I like pretzels. Would you like to be tutored by me?_

_Yes! We’d love that! I really think you’re cool, too! That’s great!_

_I’m glad. Shall we get started? We should go find Scott._

_Let’s go! I’ll show you where he is. We’ll get pretzels, too. Will you show us more magical metal?_

_Of course I will._

_I’m so happy! Charles was right!_

Erik stops and looks down at Jean. He blinks down at her and tilts his head. She mirrors him.

 

_What did Charles say?_

_He said you’d come! He said you were a good person and you’d come._

Erik crouches down beside her and can’t resist – he holds her into a close hug. Away from her gaze, he brushes a tear out of his eye. He then takes her hand and continues to let her lead the way.

 

_Pretzels first or Scott?_

_… Pretzels._

Erik grins. At least she has her priorities straight.

 

If only Erik had learnt how to do the same.

 

But it’s pointless to dote, he thinks, brushing off another tear as he’s led to the kitchen – there’s Jean, there’s pretzels, there’s Scott, _their_ education, his _own_ education, and the promise of meeting Charles again, once he’s proved that he can be a better man. 


End file.
